


Roots in Stone

by beng



Series: Fires in the Night [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: All dwarf miners are, Bofur is a great structural engineer, Consequences of an alternative BoTFA, Coping, Disenfranchised Grief, Dissociation, F/M, Fili survived, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Stone Sense, Survivor Guilt, Tattoos, Tauriel didn't see Kili die, Tauriel still banished, Unlikely Friendships, Works as a standalone, You can't convince me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: Fili is the only one from the line of Durin who has survived the Battle. The newly crowned King under the Mountain does what is expected of him, and Tauriel helps where she can. There's so much to be done, but thenthosenames crop up again, and the new King loses the thread of the discussion, loses his mask of resilience and sinks deeper into the stone;thosenames crop up again, and the banished Captain takes up a longsword, takes up the most unpleasant watch, takes up riding and cleaning.How do you grieve when there's so much to be done, or when nobody even realizes you lost someone too? Who was Kili to Tauriel anyway? How do you deal with a thousand what-ifs? And when are you expected to go on? When is it alright to feel happy again?





	1. Hearts Laid in Stone and Hearts Left Behind

Fili stared at the unmoving faces of his brother and uncle.

The torches in the spacious antechamber to the Gallery of the Dead cast a friendly, flickering glow, masking their bruises that had been left by the Battle, and the deathly pallour of their skin. The blood had been washed off and the torn clothing changed. They almost looked as if they were sleeping. The only sound was the shuffling steps of the remaining Company, and of Dain's people who had come to pay their respects to the late King under the Mountain. There came an occasional stifled sob or gentle clinking of armour as they walked around the raised daises. The dirges and the lament would come later, at the feast. That's where they would be crying and cursing, and sharing stories, and getting piss-drunk, and then crying some more.

His knuckles white around the walking stick that Balin insisted he use until he healed properly, Fili closed his eyes and reached his thoughts out to the stone around him. 

Calm. Strong. Eternal. The Mountain breathed beneath Fili's feet, relieved to be rid of the dragon and welcoming home the true line of her kings. What good has this line brought to you, Fili thought. Greed, gluttony, pride and death. Hundreds of Durin's Folk perished in the dragon's attack. Hundreds screaming their agony as they died in the fire. 

The Mountain sighed. It is what it is. You are mortal, Child of Stone. You will all die when time comes. I am your home. I am your consolation. I am glad you returned.

"Fili? Fili, are you alright?"

Someone was gently touching his elbow, and Fili forced himself to return to the present. They were preparing to carry the bodies to their tombs deeper in the Gallery, quiet scraping and huffing as Dwalin and Gloin took the ancient banners of the kingdom from their stands and prepared to bear them in front of the procession. By Fili's side stood a worried Balin.

"Lad, we're waiting for you, you should walk right behind the... the stretchers."

Fili shook himself. Of course. He nodded to the white-haired counsellor and wordlessly fell in step behind the rest of the Company, as they lifted the decorated stretchers with Thorin and Kili, ready to carry them on their last journey. Fili had wanted to be among the bearers, but Oin, having cleaned and restiched the flail wounds on his back merely two days ago had forbidden him to even think about it.

" _Are_ you alright?" Balin joined him as the procession started.

Fili tightened his jaw. "Yeah. Yeah, I will be."

At their final resting place, Balin gave a speech, and Dain Ironfoot added something too. Fili had lost the thread again as they walked there, his only conscious thought being that he should have followed his brother beyond. It felt so unfair, that he had survived and his kin had not. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. 

It shook him to see Dwalin cry. Bilbo had tried to say something as they lowered Thorin into his tomb, but had choked up and then left abruptly. Again, Balin had had to nudge him, asking if he had any last words, but Fili couldn't even shake his head. He was frozen. He was stone.

You think a stone's heart can't be broken? the Mountain whispered to him. It can. It was, when the dragon came, but it will heal now.

Your heart is returned to you, Fili replied. You're getting the Arkenstone returned to your depths. It will lie here undisturbed in the Gallery of the Dead. Together with my own.

It will heal, my child. It will see spring again.

I don't deserve it. I should have died with them.

But you didn't. It is what it is.

Shaking his head, Fili suddenly found himself in a great hall that had been repurposed for the feast. Tables and benches had been hastily made from whatever materials had been available, dusty royal banners of the Kingdom under the Mountain and the seven-star banner of Durin's Folk displayed proudly along the walls. The tables, a long one running down the length of the hall and another one placed at a right angle on a small dais at one end of it, were laden heavy with good food and ale that Dain had brought with him in early anticipation of victory. Voices rose in chatter and in exchange of sympathies, a depressed but friendly murmur that accompanied everyone finding their seats. 

Fili didn't remember walking there. Probably Balin had nudged and steered him along.

"Come here, Fili!" Dain's voice boomed over the hall as he stood up and motioned for the prince to take the seat of honour at the centre of the high table where he and the remaining members of Thorin's company were seated. Sighing, Fili dragged himself over, dropping his walking stick on the floor as he sat down between Dain and Balin. This was important. This was tradition. Surely, he could pull himself together to get through this?

He took the goblet of ale that Dain offered him. He had a role to play, for the friends of his deceased kin, as well as for the scribes and storytellers, who would commit this feast to the history of his people. Clearing his throat and standing up, Fili raised the cup in salutation. Despite his best intentions, his hand was shaking.

"To those who..." he started, hoping his voice carried well enough down the hall.

"This is to those of us who fought valiantly but are not among us today," he said. "To those of us who believed in the right and the strength of the Durin's Folk. To those who, in spite of the odds stacked against them, dared to forge their own luck."

"To Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and to Kili, son of Dis!" he called. "May they find peace and glory in the Halls of Mandos as they take their rightful place among our forefathers! May their names never be forgotten in the ages to come!"

He downed his ale amid roars of praise and clamour of dishes before he collapsed in his chair, lost and exhausted by the short effort. Dain stood up next, raising his own goblet as he talked at length about his cousin Thorin and the youngest prince of the line of Durin.

Once more cheers went up as he finished, and as Fili stared at the suddenly full plate in front of him, he realized he had no idea what had just been said. He wasn't even sure what _he_ had said mere minutes ago. Feeling weak, he tried to eat something, but his throat was tight and his head was spinning. Glancing down both tables, he realized he couldn't see Tauriel or Bilbo anywhere, and suddenly he felt it was of paramount importance to find them.

"I'll be back in a moment," he murmured to Balin. Grabbing his walking stick and ignoring the older dwarf's protests, Fili pushed back his chair and all but fled the lively hall.

The Mountain was worried, but for once, he ignored her too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm aiming for something like 10-ish chapters in this. I haven't written in a while, so comments or concrit are much appreciated :)


	2. Questions in the Dark

Tauriel tossed the runestone in the air and then caught it despite the darkness that had taken over her room. Ori had brought her dinner early, apologising and explaining that there would be a feast later, so everyone would be busy. Then he'd apparently forgotten to bring her new candles. Tauriel didn't blame him, and the darkness didn't bother her all that much. She was an elf, she could see her broken furniture well enough. Candles were no substitute for her beloved stars anyway.

Lying on the low, square bed with the dusty quilt and moth-eaten pillows, she tossed the stone and caught it again. She thought she could draw the runes from memory by now — but what exactly did they say? 

Sighing, Tauriel sat up and turned the smooth stone over in her hand. This was beyond frustrating. She knew the shape of the runes but she couldn't read Khuzdul. She was the one Kili had fallen in love with, but she couldn't attend his funeral. She growled, hours upon hours of idleness wearing her down, giving her nothing to do but mull over the same neverending questions again and again.

Would it have changed something if she had followed him that day on the shore?

Would she have been able to save him then? Save Thorin?

What exactly had he said to her? She thought he'd said he loved her, but had he really?

What was all this pain and restlessness, had she loved him too?

 _A Elbereth_ , only two days in the mountain, and she felt she was losing her mind already. 

Quiet footsteps echoing down the hall caught Tauriel's attention, and to her sensitive ears it didn't sound like Ori. Grateful for the distraction, she skipped to the door. She'd left it ajar, otherwise the unmoving air in her room smelled like dust and, suspiciously, of toadstools. Recognizing Fili in the dark corridor, she smiled and opened the heavy door wider.

"Hello. I didn't expect you tonight," she greeted him. 

The dwarf almost tripped in surprise, but luckily he had a — was that a walking stick?

"Don't jump on me like that," he chuckled. "I can hardly see anything here. Where are all the torches? Do they keep you in darkness?"

Tauriel shrugged as she stepped back to let Fili in. "The candles burned out. It's nothing Fili, don't worry about me. How are you? Why do you have that stick?"

The dwarf just huffed. For a moment, he stood unmoving in the centre of her room, then turned and found himself a chair, miraculously avoiding any other rubble.

"I’m sorry," he sighed. "I should've checked in with you sooner. The stick? Oin redid the stitches on my back, and Balin thinks the stick helps. Mostly I just use it to lean on when... Well. And you? How are you, Tauriel?”

The elf plopped down on her bed again, the runestone unconsciously back in her hand.

"I cannot complain,” she said. "Yes, the room is in disrepair and needs cleaning, but I can do it myself once I'm allowed to move around the Mountain. I'm not locked in, for which I am grateful. Yesterday I went to see what's on both ends of my corridor but didn't risk going further. I would not wish to get in trouble with Balin. He has been kind enough. Ori or Bifur bring me nourishing food. The halfling, Bilbo, came by this morning with Dwalin and apologized for breaking your Company out of the Elvenking's cells." Tauriel smiled at that, but figured Fili couldn't see her anyway. "It could have been worse, had you not offered me this shelter.”

Fili nodded thoughtfully. "The first snow fell yesterday. I’m glad you’re not braving the snowdrifts somewhere in Rhovanion.”

Oh. Tauriel would've loved to see the gentle first snow cover the ancient oaks near the Elvenking’s Halls. Alas, it was not to be. She wouldn't be able to go there again as long as her King's decision stood. By pulling an arrow in Thranduil's face she had lost the right to come home.

"You buried them, yes?” she asked, instantly cringing at how small her voice sounded. There was a strange lump in her throat. "In the tradition of your people?”

"Aye.” Fili leaned his head on the back of the chair as he closed his eyes. He sounded distant and tired. "They were returned to the Stone. I will see them when I’m dead.”

I will see them when the world ends, Tauriel thought. When Arda is unmade and then remade unmarred. 

"So now... What happens now?" she asked.

Fili sighed.

"Tomorrow they're preparing everything. The day after tomorrow I guess I'm crowned King under the Mountain. After that — I have no idea."

"So soon..."

"Oin advised on the day. Balin trusts his portents."

Thoughtful, Tauriel traced the pattern of the quilt with the edge of the runestone. "Will I be allowed to attend?"

"You will be  _required_  to attend," Fili drawled. "To be honest, I'm missing half of what Balin says these days, but thankfully Dwalin is usually there to give me the short version, and a cuff on my head. Sometimes it works..."

"Anyway, they say that the ancient Codex of Erebor... " he continued, "or of the Kingdom under the Mountain...? I'm sorry, I forgot the name. They say you have to be a subject of the King, or belong to Durin's Folk, to be able to walk around the Mountain freely. I think... I don't know. Bilbo is not staying, I just talked to him. He's leaving tomorrow. So you remain the only exception."

The dwarf rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he felt an impending headache. He had buried his brother today, Tauriel reminded herself. He probably doesn't want to talk all that much.

"Can I think it over tomorrow?" she asked. "I mean, I probably don't have much choice, but still..."

Fili nodded tiredly.

They sat for a while, comfortable in the darkness and each caught up in their own thoughts. Tauriel didn't know Fili that well, but there was something about his manner tonight that worried her slightly. Why was he here, of all places? Why was he not with his people?

"What are you doing over there?" Fili asked suddenly. "I can't see anything, and now you stopped talking too."

Tauriel shrugged, then bit her lip, hiding a mischievous grin. "I see you well enough."

"Elven eyes... You're a witch," Fili laughed quietly. "Bewitched my brother..."

Tauriel stared at him. "You don't really think that, do you?"

"No... I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

For a moment, Tauriel played with the runestone, tracing the carved lines with her thumb. Did she dare ask him what they meant? What if it was too much, too soon? He had had a difficult day as it was.

"Tauriel?"

"Oh. I'm not doing anything, Fili. Just sitting on the bed, thinking..."

"Do you mind if... if I come think with you?"

"Here?" Tauriel hesitated. It was clear the dwarf prince was tired and didn't mean anything by it, but a bed was... well, a rather private place for elves. Suddenly Tauriel felt tired. After all he had done for her... It didn't matter that much.

"Alright," she sighed. "Just mind your step, there's some kind of a bench between you and the bed."

The dwarf stood up, feeling his way with the stick, but it seemed to Tauriel as if he knew his surroundings quite well despite what, for him, must have been pitch darkness. She leaned forward, reaching out her hand and guiding him around the bedpost to the far side of the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress carefully, feeling the dusty quilt and the hardwood footboard that Tauriel had spent a few hours trying to break off. The bed was too short for her to lie comfortably. 

Meanwhile Fili had found a pillow and slowly lay down on the bed, careful not to pull the stitches on his back. He sighed.

Tauriel watched him in silence, unsure what to say. 

The silence stretched, turning into the usual stream of thoughts that, since the Battle, kept Tauriel awake at nights, all the what-ifs and possibilities, memories and touches, questions and no answers.

She put a pillow behind her back and gathered her legs beneath her, sitting more comfortably against the headboard, the smooth labradorite token still warm in her hand.

Fili's eyes were closed, his breathing even. Tauriel lightly patted his hair, then pulled the quilt over him.

Eru be gracious, at least Fili would sleep peacefully tonight.

 

 


	3. Papering Over the Cracks

 

Ouch!

Fili bit back a curse as Dori's comb got caught in his hair again.

He was stuck in a chair being prepared for the coronation ceremony, like some bloody doll, with Dori and Balin fussing about his hair and clothes, and Dwalin unhelpfully smirking at him from the doorway. Located deep inside the mountain, Fili now had a separate sleeping chamber with a large canopy bed and an open fireplace, and there was a spacious library for council meetings. The rooms were large, richly decorated, and decrepit.

Fili had no idea what to do with so much space. And that absurdly infinite treasury was just around the corner and barely a flight of stairs lower. Fili growled as the comb snagged again, and Dori muttered another apology.

"Oh, sit still, Fili," Balin reproached him as he was pinning a gold and diamond brooch on his collar. "You can't wear the crown on that bird's nest you have on your head, lad."

Fili bit down a reply, closed his eyes and dug his palms into the carved ornaments of the wooden armrests of his chair.

"Breathe," Dwalin reminded him from the doorway. Fili tried.

The Mountain pulsed in anticipation around him. Over the past few days another new sensation had taken root in his mind — the shining, demanding, weighty, and undeniable beckoning of the gold. It left a metallic taste not unlike blood on his tongue.

It is a part of me, the Mountain said. It comes from my veins, or the veins of the Stone in the North and the East. It is the fruit of your kin’s artful labour.

A dragon lay on that gold for nearly two hundred years. It is full of poison, Fili argued.

You can be stronger than that poison. Thorin Oakenshield was.

I’m not Thorin!

When he opened his eyes again, he found all three of his companions bent over him in concern.

"Fili," Balin asked, "tell me honestly, lad, have you slept at all?"

"Of course I have," the prince snapped. The huge four-poster bed was ridiculous, and the mattress uncomfortable, but he had slept in it, just like they wanted. He didn’t need another dose of fussing like when Ori, not thinking to knock on the open door, had found him asleep in Tauriel’s room the previous morning. That had elicited concern even from Dain, not to mention the Company, who had been looking for him all over the Mountain.

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a look.

"I finished your braids," Dori said kindly. "You probably dozed off once I got all the snags out. People often do." The dwarf smiled at him reassuringly before stepping back and gathering his combs and brushes, and beads, and clasps.

Fili stared at his kinsman's retreating back until he bowed at the door and left.

Come to think of it, _had_  he slept the night before? 

"Get up, Fili. Put on your sword." Dwalin held out an old but carefully polished scabbard.

Unprotesting, Fili attached it to his belt. The holes in his memory were starting to worry him, and all this chatting with the Mountain couldn't be quite normal either.

What kind of a sword was it anyway? Fili pulled it out, testing its balance and thumbing the uneven edge. It was dwarven-made and felt good enough, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen it before.

“Is this some ceremonial sword?” he asked. “Too blunt to use in real battle, no?”

Dwalin frowned. “It’s your sword. Dain’s people brought in all the weapons they found on the battlefield, we just didn’t have time to sharpen it yet.”

“Oh.”

It is a good sword, the Mountain pitched in. You can sharpen it later…

With a loud clang, the sword fell from Fili’s shaking hands.

…when you’re the King.

“Fili?”

The coronation. The broken throne at the cross section of slender bridges, with a gaping pit on all sides of it, waiting to swallow him. The giant statues of his forebears watching his every move. The raven crown that made him nauseous to even imagine on his head.

"Fili, do you want us to postpone the ceremony?" Balin asked him seriously. "You don't seem well, my lad."

"No, it's..." His palms dug into the hilt of the sword as he picked it up again, seeking the grounding feel of cool metal against his skin. He could do this. He _had_ to do this. Slowly he slid the blade back in its sheath. "Oin said it's a good day. Let's get it over with."

Dwalin nodded. He put a heavy hand on the prince’s shoulder as he looked into his eyes. "You won't get over your loss tomorrow, Fili, or the day after tomorrow. But you can do this one thing for your people. We'll be there for you. Make your mother proud."

Mahal,give me strength, Fili prayed. He scrunched his eyes shut as he nodded tersely.

Balin sighed and then ploughed on determinedly. "Alright, laddie, now come stand here. I need to see how that furred cape looks on you."

The Mountain was waiting.

 

 

Tauriel threw open another chest in her room and dug into its neatly folded contents.

A handful of Dain's soldiers had shown up the previous day with buckets and brooms, and, citing Prince Fili's request, had cleaned her room in under an hour — organized, quick and effective. They had even slightly bowed to the confused elf as they left. The dwarves had removed any broken furniture that needed repairing, and now Tauriel had more room to turn around as she sorted through the chests and the wardrobe. The air in the room still started to smell of old mushrooms if she kept the door shut though.

She huffed in annoyance as another piece of clothing turned out to be a pair of dwarven pants. She couldn't wear those, but her velvet dress felt dirty and needed washing, as did Tauriel herself. The lighter green overdress that went over it was torn in places, with some muddy spots and occasional spatters of dried blood remaining from the Battle. Attending the coronation of the new king in her slept-in, bloody, rumpled clothes was not something Tauriel was looking forward to. What must they think of her already? Fili  _had_  been quite embarrassed, when Ori had accidentally barged in with breakfast and new candles. 

A white silk scarf embroidered with bright blue and gold geometric patterns? Tauriel sceptically regarded the garment in her hands. At least it wasn't moth-eaten. She threw the scarf on her bed, in the pile of other maybes.

She wasn't sure what exactly she hoped to find here. Any dwarf clothes would definitely look strange on her, but she didn't have much choice. Her own things were still in her chambers in Mirkwood, unless Thranduil had had them thrown out. Her clothes, her simple jewellery, a couple song and poetry books, a few things from her mother... Tauriel swallowed hard. It's just things, she reminded herself.

Finally digging out a more or less decent dark grey shirt, Tauriel sighed and added it to the pile. It had been a while since the breakfast, and Ori had said someone would come get her in the late afternoon. So she had some time.

Closing the door and bolting it shut, Tauriel walked over to a corner table where a washing bowl and a heavy metal jar with water had appeared the previous day, thanks to the same gruff warriors that Fili had sent over. She dressed down to her simple silk camisole and poured some water in the bowl. Dipping a washcloth into the cool water, Tauriel tightened her jaw and ran it over her neck and shoulders.

Lack of fitting clothes or running water was not the end of the world, she told herself sternly. She should be grateful for the shelter she'd been given, be it as broken and dysfunctional as it was. 

She'd made her choice, and King Thranduil had made his, she thought, shivering as the cold water trickled down her arms and chest. If she didn't want to spend the rest of the winter confined to her chamber, or wandering the snowy plains of Rhovanion, she'd have to pledge herself to a different king now.

With a heavy heart, she towelled herself dry in one of the embroidered linen cloths she'd found, and put on the ridiculously wide-sleeved shirt that barely reached her mid-thigh. She ran her fingers through her hair and rebraided it, and then sat down on her bed to try and start mending her overdress. Getting the needle and thread from her pouch brought her back to the night after the Battle when she'd found Fili bleeding on the battlefield. Hands shaking, she had to take a slow breath as she counted to twenty. 

She had never seen Kili out there, didn’t know where he died or why, what wounds he had suffered and by whom. She hadn’t even been able to go to his funeral, and it felt unfair, even if she couldn’t really name the reason. It just left her hanging, incomplete, with something beautiful, or maybe crazy, just out of her grasp, interrupted cruelly before it could even take shape.

Perhaps this would have been her life had she followed him, she wondered as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. If he'd survived. If he'd really loved her, and if she'd loved him back.

"Come with me," Kili had asked, but she'd ridden off with Legolas. "Let's go," Fili had offered, and, left with no other options, Tauriel had followed him blind-folded into the mountain.

This broken, mouldy, dusty mountain with no light and fresh air might have been her future anyway, had she chosen Kili and  _had he lived_ , and it certainly was her present.

Brushing away the tears, Tauriel got to work. She didn’t have any other choice. She’d just have to adapt.

 

 

Standing on the steps in front of the throne, Fili tried to arrange the folds of his heavy cape. The ridiculous thing felt like he could drown in it. It was too large. The whole hall was too large! 

The double doors at the far end of the narrow bridge in front of him would open any minute now, letting in the remaining Company, Dain Ironfoot, and his people. What if someone slips and falls into that chasm on both sides of the pathway? It was dangerous, and needlessly so. Whoever designed this place…

"No, Balin, give it back! I want my stick!" Fili protested as he noticed the white-haired counsellor pick up his wooden walking staff from the floor. 

"But it's..." Balin regarded the staff in dismay. "It's just a piece of wood. It would look out of place, Fili. The ceremony will not be too long."

Fili bit down a curse.

"Thorin has not been dead for too long either," he snapped at Balin, instantly regretting it as the counsellor recoiled in surprise. "I  _need_  my stick. Please."

For a moment Balin seemed at a loss for words. He shook his head helplessly, and quickly brushed away the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

"I'll find you a battle-axe to lean on then," he offered. "You're... Thorin would be so proud of you... Do me this favour, Fili. Let everyone see the strength of the line of Durin endure."

"Are you ready?" Gloin shouted from over at the door. "I think everyone is here now."

Fili hesitated, but perhaps it really was better to just get it over with. He didn’t need a crutch, it made no difference to the constant itch on his back, the low buzzing pain that he had learned to ignore. He’d just grown used to the staff while trying to appease Balin’s worry. "Alright. I can stand. I'm sorry, Balin. It's just..."

Pursing his lips, the counsellor nodded. Preparing for a coronation, when Thorin Oakenshield, the rightful King under the Mountain, had perished so tragically and so recently, hadn't been easy for anyone. More intensely than ever, Fili felt like an impostor.

Balin put away the stick and made some last corrections to the draping of his cape, brushed off some imagined dust from the front of his vest. "Don't slouch," he whispered to Fili, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Oh, he'd be so proud of you! We all are, lad."

Fili took a deep breath as he straightened his back. As Gloin turned to sway the door open, Fili reached for the ancient stone beneath his feet, and found it tense and alert, charged with power like air before a storm.

There was no chance this was going to end well.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discovered I love writing Erebor lol.


	4. The Raven Crown, Bestowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm adding warnings for hallucination and voices in the head. Tough luck, Fili.  
> This whole "Fires in the Night" series is a sort of a writing sandbox where I try out new styles and structures, so if anything is too weird, let me know!  
> Otherwise — welcome to my parlour! B)

The throne hall was huge. Tauriel's eyes widened as she filed into the spacious cavern together with the dwarves, taking in the crackling fire in cast iron braziers on both sides of the door and the welcome sight of daylight that poured in through the high windows in the mountainside somewhere to the right.

The Iron Hills dwarves milled on the ledge at the start of a pathway across a deep pit, before filing into the side galleries, surprised gasps turning into murmurs and excited shuffling. Dwalin nudged Tauriel in the side, steering her out of their way and straight onto the pathway that lead to the throne. She could see Fili’s lone figure standing proudly at its other end. The small group that had set out with Thorin from Ered Luin waited for them some ten steps from the ledge.

“You think we need to go closer, Dwalin?” Bofur whispered after greeting them both.

The older warrior shook his head as he folded his arms over his chest. “First coronation, then the pledge,” he replied. “We wait for Balin’s signal.”

"I don't like this," Nori grumbled to his brothers. "Something feels weird."

"Balin _explained_ ," Ori whispered to him patiently. "We were all born in Ered Luin. Or elsewhere. We all need to officially pledge ourselves to the new king of Erebor."

"It's just a short formality," his elder brother tried to pacify him from the other side. "Don't start a fuss, Nori. It's Miss Tauriel here who will need to repeat after Fili the whole loyalty oath of Durin. Ori spent half a day yesterday translating it into Westron. We just need to bend the knee and hail the new king."

Half a day spent translating? Tauriel wondered how long that oath could be. What was she expected to swear exactly?

Nori crossed his arms over his chest as he frowned. "Still feels weird."

He lightly kicked Bofur in the heel, so the other dwarf turned around. "You feel anything, miner?"

Bofur shrugged as he let his eyes roam the walls and the ceiling of the vast hall. 

Trying to fight her uneasiness, Tauriel followed the path of his gaze. There were the huge, majestic statues of dwarves on both sides of the hall, the strictly parallel carved ribs of the vaulted stone ceiling. The sheer audacity of the narrow bridges rising from the depths of the mountain made her slightly weak in the knees. Everything looked solemn and dignified, the sharp angles and facets mirroring each other without a fault.

"The Stone is solid here, Nori," the miner said. "It's ancient. Its long life has left traces in its memory, but it won't cave in or anything."

Still, the tone of his voice didn't seem to have convinced the other dwarf.

Tauriel felt she stood out like a sore thumb in the vast, angular hall, and she sighed in relief when their group walked back to the now empty ledge by the door.

“Stop fidgeting, lass,” Dwalin muttered at her side, and looking down Tauriel noticed she’d been picking at the ties of her bracers. She tucked her shirtsleeves tighter into the bracers and then clasped her hands behind her back, trying to force herself to pay attention to the yellow-haired dwarf standing before the throne. The elf smiled at him, but he probably didn’t see it.

> _“You’re ready,” Dwalin had not as much asked as simply stated when she'd opened her door._
> 
> _The elf nodded. “Is this acceptable?” she asked, spreading her arms and looking down at the old grey shirt, her green dress mended and leather pants cleaned as well as was possible._
> 
> _The dwarf hadn’t even glanced at her outfit._
> 
> _“You really saved him, didn’t you?” he asked her, eyes narrowed in suspicion._
> 
> _“Fili? I stitched the wounds on his back and helped him return here,” Tauriel said. “That he survived the Battle is only his own merit.”_
> 
> _“Would you help him again?”_
> 
> _“Of course.”_
> 
> _“Would you die for him?”_
> 
> _Tauriel paused, at a loss for words._
> 
> _“I… I honestly cannot say, Master Dwalin.”_
> 
> _The dwarf bored her with his gaze for a long moment._
> 
> _“Then make sure there’s no need for that,” he said before turning to go. “Come on, lass. I don’t want to be late.”_

Tauriel had feared the burly warrior would leave her right there, lock her up and tell Balin she’s not to be trusted. Fili had undoubtedly been kind to her, but suddenly Tauriel had thought of his brother again, and even for him she wasn’t sure she could’ve answered Dwalin’s question. Either way, here she was in the throne hall.

Low, long horns sounded from both galleries, filling the air with jubilant tremor.

Tauriel watched as Balin and Dain stepped out from the opposite side galleries and slowly walked towards each other, meeting in the middle of the hall where Fili stood motionless. As the horns died, the counsellor struck an ornate staff three times against the floor and then asked something to the Lord of the Iron Hills in Khuzdul. Dain replied, and so it went for a short while, as Tauriel bit her lip frowning. It looked to her as if Fili's eyes were closed and he was slightly swaying on his feet, but perhaps it was the greenish shadows playing tricks on her eyes. 

Bofur signed something to Dwalin, and the taller dwarf rolled his shoulders and grumbled something. Then he stepped closer to Tauriel and started to translate for her.

 

They had barely begun, and already Fili couldn't wait for the whole thing to be over. 

The rightful king lay dead. This was just a formality, carried out to appease their new neighbours. Fili glanced up where Gandalf, Bard and Beorn were watching from a small, shadowy gallery above the door. Dain and Balin had said coronation had always been an internal matter of the dwarves, while Fili and Dwalin had argued that, considering their help in the battle, they should be invited as guests of honour. Putting them on that balcony had been a compromise.

Thranduil's forces had taken their dead and injured, and withdrawn soon after the battle had ended. The Elvenking had sent no word expressing a wish to participate, and for that Fili was glad.

He didn't think he could face the cold, rational elf lord, who had recalled his forces when his brother and uncle had needed them the most.

The Mountain needed a King, however. And, as King, Fili would have to deal with Mirkwood too.

> _Tauriel slid down the wall, face hidden in her palms. She was breathing heavily in the near darkness of the wall crack they had hidden in._
> 
> _"Are you injured?" he asked._
> 
> _"No..." the elf choked out. "I'm just broken. I've lost everything. My job, my home... I left everything behind, to heal one dwarf. What kind of Guard's Captain am I when I point my arrow in my King's face and threaten him not to dare leave the battlefield?"_
> 
> _"You... You did that?"_
> 
> _The elf took a shuddering breath as she straightened up._
> 
> _"I pulled an arrow on my king. His life could not be worth more than your brother's," she said. "I begged him to rejoin the fight. He didn't."_

Fili cursed under his breath. How was he going to be able to deal with the King of Mirkwood? How?!

"Since the days of Durin the Deathless, mountains and stone have been the realm of the dwarves," recited Balin, his elderly voice reverberating through the hall. Fili felt it echo in his bones. "They have been ours to shape and take shelter in, ours to mine and inhabit." 

"Since the days of Durin the Deathless, there has been but one King of Rhovanion's Stone," Dain continued from the other side of the throne.

"Whether in Moria, or the Grey Mountains, whether in Iron Hills or here in Erebor, Durin's Folk answer to but one King."

Fili scrunched his eyes shut. Mahal's beard, would they _get on_ already?

"The Kingdom under the Mountain has been reclaimed!" Dain Ironfoot cried out.

"The line of the kings has not been broken."

Both dwarves turned towards Fili, who was now standing in front of them, his back still turned to the throne. He breathed heavily, trying to concentrate on the smooth expanse of the bridge in front of him. The to-and-fro between Balin and Dain, amplified by the large unhewn stone pillar that rose up from the throne, was making his ears ring. The memories of the battle, and the Mountain's breathy voice was there too, just beneath the surface of his consciousness. He felt the Stone trembling in anticipation, barely able to hold still as he begged her to wait, to keep quiet, to stay out of his mind.

"Under mountain, under stone," boomed Dain's powerful voice behind Fili's back.

Throughout the lands, a whisper swept past Fili's feet. 

"Throughout the lands let it be known," called Balin, striking his staff against the floor as an excited murmur rose in the galleries.

"A King" — My King! — "under the Mountain shall be crowned once more!"

Again the horns sounded, amid cheers and clapping of hands, and Fili gripped the hilt of his sword hard, fighting the onslought of emotion that welled up from the Stone beneath his feet. The Mountain had waited long enough, in darkness and poison, and dragon's breath.

The sword handle was smooth, its accurate leather binding hiding any sharp facets. Fili bit down another curse.

I _am_ reclaimed, the Mountain rejoiced all around him, her depth, age and darkness lapping like waves at his ankles.

He needed something real to hold on to, something sharp and cutting, and the best he could find was Tauriel's flaming red hair at the far end of the hall. She watched him, thin eyebrows drawn in an uncertain frown, but she couldn't know what was going on in his head. Nobody here needed to see that. Fili took a shuddering breath. Get on with it, Balin, he prayed.

Something was happening on the brazier-lit edge, Nori was trying to get to the door, but Dwalin caught him by the scruff of his neck and held him still. Dori and Oin were gesturing wildly as they talked with Bofur.

You _will_ be King, Child of Stone! Silver fountains, golden halls!

Tauriel broke his gaze and stepped to the side, as Bifur nudged Dwalin in the ribs to catch his attention before signing him something.

Neverending wealth shall flow!

> _"The King beneath the mountains, the King of carven stone!" sang the Lakemen as the boat of Thorin Oakenshield's company left the pier._
> 
> _"The woods shall wave on mountains and grass beneath the sun; his wealth shall flow in fountains and the rivers golden run!" they sang as Kili crumpled in his arms, his reckless, little,_ only _brother..._

Fili staggered.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of Dain's high-standing officers carrying the raven crown to Balin. A rumbling of drums rose from the galleries situated beneath the level of the bridges, making it sound like it was rising from the depths of the pit, the very roots of the Mountain. The drums sounded like battle, like clash of swords and shields. Screams of the dying rang in Fili's ears, the sickening soft noise of black spears piercing armour and flesh, the crackling of dragon fire, the deafening silence of the Western guardroom as the last refugee drew his last breath.

The pain, the history, the vast soul of the Mountain was too much for one dwarf.

The raven crown belonged to Thorin, as did the Arkenstone, as did the throne of Erebor.

Together with his brother, he might have stood a chance. 

Why had he been left behind, alone, when all he wanted was to embrace that wailing Stone, sink into her and join his brother in his eternal sleep?

Blood ringing in his ears, Fili continued to stare at Tauriel. He vaguely wondered if Nori was hearing the cries of the Mountain too, and tried to ignore the pressing glares of the ancient stone lords and kings that lined the sides of the hall. He was weak. He couldn't handle this whole primordial mess. He shouldn't even be standing here, he should have given his life on the battlefield. Died protecting the true King under the Mountain... 

Many died in the battle, the Mountain echoed his thoughts. Many Firstborn and many Followers, and so many, many, many of my children...

Fili was breathing heavily, refusing to look away from the red-headed elf even as the voice of the Mountain grew even louder. He wished Tauriel was here with him. She'd known his brother's heart better than others who'd known Kili for years, and whatever small part of him still lived on in the elf, he wanted to feel it near, he wanted her here by the broken throne, but what he got instead was Balin appearing suddenly in front of him, Thorin's gold and enamel crown in hand.

Blood has covered the field at my feet, the Mountain's pain had risen to a raging storm all around him, as Fili watched Balin say something. A wretched monster is rotting at the bottom of the lake, she wailed. He _tore_ at me, he _lived_ in me, he _broke_ my halls and caverns! 

You are my King, you will bring peace!

My heart will heal, my gold will flow, gems and stones, and songs of yore!

Dazed, Fili noticed he was shouting something, shaking his head. His knees buckled and almost gave out. He lurched forward, seeking support on the counsellor's shoulder, someone made a grab trying to catch him, but he fell on Balin.

The crown fell from Balin's hands, slid off the pathway and disappeared in the pit.

 


	5. No Other Way Than Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, reader. I've managed to misplace all my plot/characterization notes for the story, and then I got a case of English dumbs >.< Please let me know if there are any weird phrases or wording.

 

Fili woke to the murmur of soft voices and the feel of a heavy duvet tucked around him. He was in his wide bed with the lumpy mattress, his shirt drenched in sweat, his head dizzy. Who had put him here? Who had removed his other clothes? What time was it, how long had he been… Oh, shit. The crown. The last thing he remembered was the gold crown rolling over the edge of the pathway. Fili scrunched his eyes shut and hoped nobody had noticed him waking up.

He glanced through his lashes, needing to know who was in the room with him, but it was just Balin sitting in the armchair by the dying fire, his tired face streaked with silvery tears. Tauriel was kneeling by his chair, holding his hand and speaking to him in a halting voice too low for Fili to make out her words.

Oh, what had he done? What must they think of him?

Had they found the ancient heirloom, or was it lost forever?

Had he gone mad?

Fili quietly burrowed deeper under the blanket. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He didn’t want to meet that look of kindness, disappointment and sadness shining in Balin’s eyes, see the undeserved worry in Tauriel’s… Fili couldn’t face anyone at the moment. He wanted to sleep and never think about this whole mess again.

At least, the Mountain was silent.

 

* * *

 

The next time he woke, there was just Tauriel sitting in the other armchair, the fire in the grate blazing bright. The elf sat, long legs crossed at the ankles stretched out towards the flame, her head resting on one hand. The fire painted her hair the colour of burnished copper mixed with embers, rubies and blood. Fili blinked, the image burnt in his retinas.

“You’re awake,” she noted. She didn’t turn her gaze from the fire.

“Elven ears, huh?” Fili muttered.

Tauriel shrugged. Fili pulled himself up and propped the pillow behind his back. He stank of sweat, as did his shirt and bedsheets, but at least the fever seemed to have passed. It was no use trying to feign sleep now.

The elf had stood up and came over to his bed. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like crap. Sorry. What happened?”

The elf crossed her arms as she leaned against a bedpost. There were shadows in her eyes that Fili hadn’t seen there before. Come to think of it, when was the last time he had seen the elf captain close up and in decent lighting? When he brought her to the gates of Erebor? That had been almost a week ago.

“You fell on Balin, the crown fell into the pit,” Tauriel said simply. “You were half-conscious when they brought you here. You were asking somebody to stop, to leave you alone. Dwalin had to hold you down while Oin got you to drink some kind of a calming mixture.”

Fili clenched his jaw and glanced down at the duvet. So his embarrassment had been complete.

“Why did you… _How_ did you lose balance on level ground? You’re a warrior,” she wondered.

He glared at her, but Tauriel held his gaze unflinchingly.

“Nori was worried about something,” she said, “but I didn’t understand. Did you hear voices too?”

Surprised, the dwarf leaned back against the headboard. “Nori?” He frowned. He did vaguely remember a fuss on the ledge by the door. “Did he say what it was?”

Tauriel cocked her head as she regarded him seriously.

“He said he heard the mountain scream.”

Oh.

“Fili?”

“I thought it was just me.”

Fili leaned forward and rubbed his face. Oh, he was gross. But if Nori had heard the Mountain too, then perhaps Fili was not as crazy as he had started to fear. Relieved, he wanted to get up straight away, but the fact he was half-naked under the blanket stopped him.

“You heard the mountain? How?” Tauriel sounded sceptical.

“I don’t know. Did Nori say something else?”

The elf straightened up and turned away from him. “I don’t know. They switched to Khuzdul.”

“Dain sent a group of his warriors to search the lower tunnels,” Tauriel continued. “He was confident the crown will be found. Bifur and Bofur joined them. It will be fine.” The elf stepped back, walking back to the armchair and turning her attention back to the fire.

“When, though?” Fili wondered tiredly. “How?”

The elf tucked her slender legs beneath her and clasped her hands around her knees. She looked disproportionate and out of place in the low, massive armchair. A single, long glance was all the answer Fili got from her.

 

* * *

 

The dawn found Tauriel on the small training ground that somebody, probably Dain’s soldiers, had set up on the mountainside, a windswept outcropping of rock, barely larger than the guards room in the cellars of the Elven King’s halls. Her daggers were one of the last things she had from her old life, and the dummy set up on one side of the rock-strewn terrace had already felt every inch of them.

Upper cut, block, step back, another cut. Tauriel’s breath came in white puffs, disappearing slowly in the chilly air.

Had it been mere eight days ago that Tauriel had been the Captain of the Guard? When she’d still had a home in the Woodland Realm, a green, shadowy, living home, with soft leaves crunching under her feet and small streams criss-crossing her path, meandering towards the Forest River? Blackbirds and wrens waking her up in the mornings, her King’s Halls a blessed sanctuary against the growing shadow.

Just twelve days ago she had met a reckless... She wasn’t going to think about him.

He’d died mere eight days ago.

Fili could have died too. If not in the battle, then by falling to death yesterday as he lost balance.

Hearing the mountain? _Did the mountain speak in Khuzdul too?_

And what was Tauriel doing here?

She was nobody now. With barely a change of clothes, a bed too short, all tables and chairs too low, no decent bath in sight, no friends, no duty, _no answers_ , nothing!

Tauriel paused when after a particularly vicious cut the rag head of the dummy flew through the air and rolled down the snowy mountainside. She stood panting, trying to get a hold of her frayed emotions. She had no desire to explain herself to Dain’s people if any decided to show up.

“There you are!”

Tauriel glared at Dwalin as he strode up the path towards her, bushy eyebrows drawn in annoyance. “Weren’t the orders clear, lass? You are to stay in your room!”

The elf narrowed her eyes at the burly warrior. “I might have, had I been able to find it. Alas, I was left in Fili’s quarters. I do not doubt that Master Balin had more important matters to take care of last night than remembering to find someone to accompany me back.”

“He _is_ in a huff about it,” Dwalin grumbled. “Now what are you doing here?”

Tauriel spread her arms in a wordless challenge, daggers still clutched in her hands.

“I see.”

Dwalin made a few steps back around the bend on the path and shouted something to the guard standing on the ledge above the main gate, probably informing him that the elf had been found. Coming back, he measured her with a careful glance, hard eyes taking in the lack of any other weapons on her. The Elvenking’s sword had cut through her bow like butter. Tauriel raised her chin defiantly.

Dwalin unbuckled the sheathed sword from his belt and tossed it to Tauriel. “Let’s see how good you are with this.”

Tauriel sheathed her daggers and looked at the dwarven sword that felt so unwieldy in her hands. Dwalin already had his double axes ready, and a challenging smirk on his face as he circled her slowly. Tauriel flashed him a predatory grin as she drew a quick figure eight with the sword, testing its balance and feel in her hand. She crouched in position, her sword-fighting lessons from centuries ago surfacing and settling in her muscles, her bones, her nerves.

“Oh, I have some centuries on you, Master Dwalin.”

 

* * *

 

“You need to train your grip, if you want to use dwarven weapons. Although, we don't have other options anyway,” Dwalin stated as they strode down a corridor some time later, sweat shining on his brow as the flickering torch in his hand illuminated their way. “Your arm strength is decent, but you drop the sword too easily.”

Tauriel grimaced. “It is heavier than elven steel.”

“It also causes you to misbalance. You need to adjust your footwork. And also, the way you skip around during a fight is…” The dwarf shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

The elf clenched her jaw. After the breath of fresh winter air, the mountain felt more stifling than ever, the darkness of the unlit, never-ending halls downright dismal. At least she had managed to work off some of her frustration, and sparring with Dwalin had been quite insightful. She had never considered dwarven fighting technique before.

“Dwalin?” Tauriel slowed down and glanced to the left as they passed a narrower gallery. She thought she recognized the carved geometric pattern on the shadowy cornices. “Isn’t my room that way?”

The dwarf marched on, his heavy steps echoing in the empty halls. “You want to sit in your room, lass?”

“Not really. Is there anything I can do?”

Tauriel thought she heard the dwarf smirk.

“Plenty. But first we’ll go down to the kitchen to eat, then you and Nori will find some whetstones, and then you can start by cleaning and sharpening some weapons and tools, like pickaxes.”

Tauriel felt her lips tugging up in a tentative smile for the first time in what felt like weeks.

“Thank you, Master Dwalin. I appreciate you letting me help.”

The dwarf grumbled before throwing open a door and ushering her into the large kitchen that in ancient times must have provided food for the entire royal court. Open grates lined one wall, huge enough to roast an entire boar or ram, and the stainless steel hooks hanging from the ceiling were probably intended for convenient storage of dried meat, fish, cheese and other goods. More than a century later, the kitchen still seemed to hold that smell of fire smoke and herbs.

Only one grate was used currently, a large pot of soup boiling over the fire, while a cheerful, potbellied cook — wasn’t he one of Thorin’s company? — was busy cutting up some more vegetables to add. Dwalin sat down at the wooden table across the kitchen, where another warrior and Master Oin were seated already. Hesitating for a bit, Tauriel walked over, greeted them and carefully lowered herself on the bench, which, unsurprisingly, was again too low for her comfort.

Unsure what to do as the dwarves resumed their chatting, in Khuzdul, she stared around the room. She stared at the side profile of the cook, and at the worn-out patterns of the floor tiles, polished to a sheen by generations of busy cooks in heavy boots or clogs. She stared at the rough grain of the table, which seemed to be nailed together from recovered planks not that long ago, probably for the funeral feast. She stared at her hands, so small and pale in comparison to the dwarves’ paws. Weak grip, huh?

With a displeased grunt, the red-headed warrior sitting on her right suddenly passed her a loaf of fresh bread, still warm from an oven. Tauriel broke off a lump and passed it to Dwalin on her left, then gave in to the temptation and smelled it deeply.

The cook chuckled behind her back as he reached around and placed a bowl of steaming hot soup right in front of her. “I will take it as a compliment, Lady Tauriel. Gloin, you see that? Even an elf likes my bread, so I’m not taking any complaints from you anymore!”

The warrior was not impressed. “It’s too soft and white. Of course the elf likes it.”

“It… smells good?” Tauriel tried.

“Aye! You hear that, Bombur? It even _smells_ prissy.”

The dwarves roared in laughter, and Tauriel felt herself grinning despite herself.

“Eat,” the cook laughed as he threw a handful of spoons on the table. “And get out, or finally bring here that other table you keep promising me, so we lads can all eat together. And Lady Tauriel, of course.”

With a few deep breaths to calm herself, Tauriel dug in.

The soup was unpalatable, like the majority of dwarven cooking she had tried before, but it was filling and warm. She would get used to it. She would adjust.

But for now, eating with others in the kitchen felt good enough already.

 

* * *

 

Tired and slightly overwhelmed from her day in the Mountain, Tauriel walked down her corridor, actually looking forward to a good night’s rest.

After lunch, she had spent a good couple of hours with Nori, investigating what remained of the old repair shops and occasional smithy they found not far from the main gate. Then they had searched for a wheelbarrow, and then they had brought a pile of rags, a few buckets of fine river sand, and a larger grindstone machine to the armoury. It had taken them some time to replace the belt and to learn how to operate the treadle in a way that the stone turned smoothly and not too fast. Then they had taken shifts grinding and polishing the swords and axes that they had found lying in a pile on the floor, collected from the battlefield by Dain’s soldiers.

Dwalin had dropped by and explained to Nori where the pickaxes were stored, and the next day they had agreed to move their temporary workshop there. Apparently, the crown had fallen into some crevice that could only be accessed by a caved-in tunnel, and the dwarves needed sharp, good quality tools to get through. At least that was Dain’s current plan, and Tauriel hoped he was right.

She had asked Nori about those voices he had heard, but he’d been surprisingly tight-lipped about it, so Tauriel didn’t press. Perhaps he was embarrassed by the scene he had caused.

She hadn’t seen Fili since she left his chambers in the predawn darkness, feeling restless and annoyed, but now she wondered how he was. The coronation had been interrupted, so what was going to happen now? They didn’t think Dain Ironfoot should take over, did they? Fili was, well… He had come so far and had lost so much already.

Nori had led her no farther than the entrance to her corridor and then slunk off. Tauriel didn’t blame him. It had been a long day, and this way she could at least start to learn her way around the mountain.

Her door had been closed, and the room was stuffy. She really needed to remember to ask somebody about that mushroom smell. Dwalin might know where it came from. Or Fili, if she happened to meet him any time soon. The smell definitely didn’t originate in her room, or Dain’s impromptu cleaning brigade would have taken care of it.

Leaving the door ajar, Tauriel unerringly picked up the matchbox she had left on the drawer chest on her right, hands moving in the darkness to where her candles lay in the corner of the top drawer. It had been only a week, but she knew her room already. She lit up the candle and fixed it securely into the simple stone holder. She didn’t want it to turn over and set the carpet on fire, threadbare as it was.

She knew her room, and so it came as a shock when, turning around, with every intention to quickly wash her face and hands, and then burrow under the quilt, she instead almost tripped on some boxes lying on the floor in her path.

Those were three wooden boxes of distinct elven make. Tauriel found her hand shaking and quickly put the candle back down on the drawer chest. Dwalin had mentioned something about an envoy from Mirkwood that Balin and Dain had been taking care of, and Nori had had to quickly shoo her from the grindstone when the news had made Tauriel drop the halberd she had been working on.

With a resigned sigh, Tauriel knelt on the floor and pulled out her dagger. She accurately pried the nailed lid open and almost choked when she saw her winter clothes and her few poetry books. Her spare boots had been placed accurately at the bottom, and the handful of jewellery she owned was still in the ornate wooden box she kept it in, tied securely with a ribbon. She opened the other two boxes, and found the entirety of her meagre belongings, with the exception of her furniture and some larger interior objects. There were her clothes and her undergarments, her bed linens, her camping gear and her knitted scarf she had meant to finish ages ago, her old bracers, her warm socks and even… Tauriel swallowed hard as her hand closed around smooth, cool metal and she pulled out her flute.

Nothing was broken or damaged, everything had been folded and secured as carefully as possible. Somehow Tauriel doubted it had been Thranduil’s intention, but apparently there were still decent servants in the Elvenking’s Halls who took no pleasure in causing her grief.

Tauriel stood up and stared at the boxes for a while, flute still clutched in her hand.

So her King had truly and irrevocably thrown her out.

Well. She sniffed and brushed away a few stray tears. She wasn’t going to lose her grip, Dwalin would not like that. And she had some sharpening to do tomorrow.

Picking from a box her nicest towel, Tauriel strode off to her water pitcher and five minutes later curled under her quilt. For the first time in a week, she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.


	6. Do Not Look Back, Do Not Look Too Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longer one :)

It had been four days since the unfortunate coronation and the first time Tauriel had been invited to the Mountain Council, as they called it for now. Didn’t seem appropriate to evoke the ancient Royal Council, “seeing as the Mountain had no King”, Balin had muttered as he’d come to get her, shoulders hunched in tired defeat. Tauriel had chosen not to comment.

Standing at the round table in the library at Fili’s quarters and curious despite her attempted reticence, she tried her best to follow the discussion.

“We need to replenish our food stocks,” Dain said as he sat reclining in the chair right across her. “Considering we don’t have any supply agreements in place yet,” he glanced at Fili, “I will send word to the Iron Hills and bring more provisions. They should arrive in a timely manner in a week’s time.”

Balin nodded. “We appreciate it, Lord Dain. It will have to do for now. Bard and I _are_ working on an agreement.”

Dain cast another look at Fili, who hadn’t said anything so far, focussing grimly on the draft agreement in front of him. Tauriel wondered who was supposed to sign it on behalf of the dwarves. Fili had absent-mindedly scrolled up the bottom part of the agreement and she couldn’t see the signature lines.

Dwalin impatiently rapped his thick fingers on the table, drawing Dain’s eyes from the prince. “We need a plan for cleaning and repairs. We should be able to provide accommodation for at least part of our people arriving in spring.”

“How many?” Dain asked.

“Princess Dis and her retinue should account for at least fifty people,” Balin said. Tauriel noticed how Fili’s shoulders sagged at the mention of his mother, and his gaze became even more absent. “There will be, no doubt, a large number of craftsmen and warriors joining her. Their families will probably come later, in summer or autumn once the roads are clearly safe and accommodations in the mountain prepared for them. Durin’s Folk account for some three thousand people in the Blue Mountains.”

Dain nodded. “Some who found shelter in the Iron Hills might want to return too.”

“So?” Dwalin prompted. “Where do we put them? Where do we start? Fili?”

The prince remained deep in his own thoughts, so Tauriel stepped closer to the table. She had been invited to participate, right? Apparently, they saw at least some value in what she might say.

“First things first, my lords,” she started. “It would be best if your people’s crossing of Mirkwood along the Old Road were agreed with King Thranduil before the coming of spring.”

Dwalin glanced up at her. “You’d have them cross the Misty Mountains?”

“The south road through Dunland would take many more months, Master Dwalin,” Tauriel pointed out. “We don’t know of the dangers lurking in those parts, but we can be fairly certain of the situation on the Misty Mountains path and in Mirkwood.”

“The elf has a point,” Dain agreed. “A known danger is better than an unknown one, especially where our dear Dis is concerned.”

Dwalin nodded grimly, his hand on the table drawing in a tight fist.

“This, too, will have to wait, for the time being,” Balin sighed, glancing quickly at Fili. “But I will start outlining the negotiations plan. If Miss Tauriel would be so kind as to assist me?”

Tauriel nodded. She had been just a captain of the guard, but maybe she could help the dwarves see the elven perspective, identify arguments that might interest the Elvenking.

“So external relationships are on hold at the moment,” Dain summarized. “But you have the mountain, and the help of my lads, for the time being. I suggest you start by a comprehensive inventory of the living quarters in the royal wing and then move on to upper levels. The craftsmen and merchant quarters closer to the entrance but away from the large halls that dratted worm could crawl through might be in a decent condition.”

Dwalin nodded. “Ori found some maps of the mountain in the archive. He can copy them and distribute them to teams of your people, let them mark down everything they find. If it’s acceptable to you.”

“It is.” Dain inclined his head. “I will send them to you once the maps are ready. My people are at your service.”

“For now,” Balin acknowledged.

“For now,” Dain agreed.

 

* * *

 

Cranky from long hours spent sitting at the grindstone, Nori had called for a break shortly after Dwalin dropped Tauriel off at their workshop.

“I don’t remember if I can leave you alone, so let’s go,” he had told her before grabbing a torch and disappearing out the door. Tauriel had blinked in surprise and then put down the axe she had started working on and rushed out after Nori.

“You don’t remember?” she asked when she caught up with him.

Nori shrugged. “Balin’s rules don’t make sense.”

“Look… No offense, missy, but we all have work to do,” he explained as they stalked down the corridor. “Why some of that precious time, or time we could use to relax, should be spent playing “fetch the elf” is anyone’s guess. Dain’s people are on the ledge on guard duty, or combing the lower tunnels for that crown. It’s only us up here, Thorin’s old company. What remains of it anyway. So who are we performing for?”

“Master Balin takes comfort in tradition,” Tauriel said. “Being unable to walk freely is inconvenient, but it is a concession I made when I came here.”

Nori cast her an amused glance. “Never would have taken you for one obeying the rules so gladly. There is some mischief in you.”

“Mischief?” Tauriel stared at him in surprise. “I was the captain of the guard. I know how important rules and discipline are.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Know, yes. But knowledge does not always equal action.” He winked at her, and then fell a step behind and pushed her lightly on the small of her back. “Go on. You should know the way to the kitchen by now.”

Tauriel glanced back at him, momentarily overwhelmed by a memory of warm brown eyes and a similarly teasing tone. But the dwarf behind her looked nothing like her archer, so Tauriel swallowed past the lump in her throat and concentrated on her destination.

She guessed half of the turns correctly.

 

* * *

 

“This used to be the tailor quarter,” Dwalin said as he and Fili passed through an elaborate archway. “Cloth was bought from Dale or elsewhere, as was leather; from raw hide to the softest kid gloves for the ladies. But clothes, footwear and accessories were made by Erebor tailors and cobblers.”

Fili nodded mutely. The amount of no-nonsense information Dwalin had dumped on him in the past few hours as they went about quickly inspecting the living quarters of the mountain was frankly overwhelming. Balin's lessons in history and legislation felt like nothing compared to the wealth of practical knowledge needed in running a kingdom.

“The tailor guild often cooperated with the saddlers and cobblers. All leather batches received were jointly evaluated by various guilds and the best use decided: riding tack and saddles, smith aprons, boots, indoor slippers and such.”

Accessories too, like belts and bags, straps and weapon sheaths, the Mountain, sounding suspiciously unsure; even shy, suddenly spoke up in the back of Fili’s mind.

Oh, fuck no. Not this again.

“Fili? Why did you stop?” Dwalin stood impatiently in the middle of the corridor.

“It’s nothing,” Fili uttered through clenched teeth and started to follow Dwalin again.

“Pay attention, lad, I’m not taking you on a repeated trip around the mountain. Down this stair,” the elder dwarf motioned somewhere to his left, “is the blacksmiths’ quarter. Nori and Tauriel have based their shop there, for now, sharpening axes and other tools. From there you can reach also the weapon smiths’ quarter. Upstairs is… Hmm. I think I haven’t gone upstairs yet.”

It’s the glassblowers’ quarter, whispered the stone walls.

“Glassblowers?,” Fili muttered without thinking. Dwalin cast him a strange look but said nothing.

The dragon’s thrashing has cracked some vault ribbing there. That level is not very stable, my prince.

Fili bit down a bitter laugh. Not stable? _I’m_ not stable.

You are of the line of Durin, you are strong. Just tell your people to be careful if they go there.

Fine, Fili huffed. Now get out of my head.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel stared at the stew placed in front of her and then half-heartedly scooped up another spoon of it. She sighed and glanced at the remaining loaf of Bombur’s delicious white bread that had been passed around as usual and now lay at the far end of the table. Could she ask Gloin to pass it to her? Would somebody get offended if she asked for more than her due?

“Are you well, Lady Tauriel?”

She glanced up at the white-haired dwarf sitting across the table from her. Those intricate braids…

“Master Dori. I am, thank you.” She returned his gentle smile before bracing herself and swallowing another spoonful. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her eyes travelled towards the bread again. “I’m sorry, could I have…”

“Oh, sure! Ori, pass the bread, lad! Thank you!” The dwarf broke off a small lump for himself and gave the rest to Tauriel. The scent was divine! The golden crust broke beneath her fingers, revealing fluffy crumb the likes of which she had never known she even wanted.

“You don’t have white bread in Mirkwood?” Nori, sitting on her right, teased her. “Poor brutes. Good thing you ended up here with us, missy.”

“We have lembas bread,” Tauriel said. “As a waybread it’s more… compact, and very nourishing. We make simple everyday bread too, but we don’t use… yeast, is it called in Westron?”

“Aye,” Dori nodded and bent forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “I see you don’t like the stew though, do you?”

Tauriel glanced at Bombur, who was busy preparing a tray for Fili and Balin. Her shoulders sagged as she shook her head with embarrassment.

“It’s very fatty,” she admitted. “Elves eat more fish and venison. We don’t have pork or ram meat.”

“Elves at Rivendell don’t eat meat at all,” Nori quipped. “Expected us to be sated from greens alone. Ori almost starved!”

“You would’ve liked the cooking at Thorin Oakenshield’s household back in the Blue Mountains then,” Dori reminisced, a faraway look on his face. “With Kili’s hunting skills, they never bothered keeping livestock or buying meat at the market. Often, the lads would go fishing as well. And the smokery Kili built with Thorin! Oh, they always had such delicious lean meats on table. It’s a pity, Lady Tauriel, that you never properly met Prince Kili… He was such a bright lad.”

Tauriel put down her spoon with a clang. Dori seemed to have retreated in his own thoughts, his shoulders sagging with memories. Nori nudged her in the side as he gestured at her cooling stew.

“You gonna eat that, missy?”

 

* * *

 

Fili was sitting at the library table, head in hands, staring at the draft agreement between Erebor and Dale, trying to make any sense of it. He had walked with Dwalin for hours, getting some overall idea about the condition of the upper levels where they planned to settle the newcomers. And the reappearance of the Mountain’s voice in his head was troubling him too. But nothing bad had come from his hallucinations this time, so perhaps he could worry about that later. This agreement was important. He didn’t like relying on Dain’s generosity as much as they did now, and it broke Fili’s heart to see Balin’s quiet, sorrowful disappointment at the current state of things.

And yet, he couldn’t grasp the meaning of the sentences, familiar words crowding and making no sense. He stared at the blanks at the top of the parchment and could get no further than that. “Such and such, position such and such, acting in accordance with — to be clarified — acting on behalf of Durin’s Folk of the Kingdom of Erebor, henceforth — Kingdom, on the one hand…”

It was his name that was supposed to be in those blanks. “Fili, son of Dis, King under the Mountain, acting in accordance with… whatever Balin called that statute, acting on behalf of…” — that was how it should read. Except it couldn’t, because Fili was no king. Fili was a stupid, messed up idiot with voices in his head.

He angrily brushed away the tears from his eyes and snatched the agreement up from the table, sitting up straighter in his chair and trying to make sense at least of the provisions part of the text. “Dale shall provide the following services, henceforth — Services, to the Kingdom…” Alright… Alright. It mentioned food supply, greens, grain and meats, and scouting services, with a provision that metal and crafts trade agreements be detailed separately at a later stage… Focused on the proposed costs of these services, Fili startled when the Mountain’s resident elf suddenly emerged from the shadows by the door.

“Master Balin wanted me to see you,” Tauriel stated with a shrug. “Or talk to you. Would that be of help?”

Fili frowned as he reclined in his chair and watched Tauriel sit down at the table across from him, making a grimace at the angular shape of the chair. “He wants us to talk? About what?” he wondered.

“What happened. How you feel.”

“Orcs happened. My kin died. What else is there to say?”

“Fili…” the elf sighed. She slid down in the chair, stretching out her long legs and raising her eyes at the ceiling where carved vaults were quietly shedding their layers of once bright paint. “You know he is worried.”

Fili raised an eyebrow. “But not you? I have a feeling everyone is fussing about me behind my back.”

“Not Dwalin,” Tauriel smirked. “He’s too busy putting everyone to work. And I already told Master Balin that I don’t believe his particular concern has any cause. That he insists I try and rectify symptoms of a problem that does not exist is an annoying exercise in futility, to say the least.”

“Oh? What... symptoms?”

The elf locked her hazel gaze with Fili’s. It was unnerving, how she could be so focussed and so serene simultaneously.

“He thinks your memory losses and your wandering attention are signs of fading. It is, according to him, something that elves are predisposed to when faced with great grief and loss,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Why he thinks it has affected you, a dwarf, is not clear to me, but he thinks it is a viable explanation.”

Fili blinked in surprise. “Fading?”

“Wasting away,” Tauriel explained. “Loss of interest, loss of appetite, desire for solitude… It does happen to elves sometimes. Less so with woodland elves though.”

“Huh.” For a moment, Fili considered the idea, absurd as it seemed. “What happens then? And do elves hear voices in their heads, when they’re… fading?”

Tauriel shook her head. “Not that I know of. Coming to a seashore, hearing the crashing of the waves may trigger the fading though. The sea still echoes the ancient music of the Ainur. We can hear it in the waves, and… it calls us west, to the Undying Lands.”

“I suppose it looks the same as dying to the other races,” Tauriel continued, thoughtful. “The spirit consciously leaves the body and departs to the Halls of Mandos. The body remains behind like an empty shell, and… well, decomposes in time. The Valar grant us new, hale bodies in Aman.”

“Yeah, I see how that would not work for me,” Fili drawled.

They sat in silence for a while, and Fili found himself contemplating the fates of the elves. If what Tauriel said was true, they could always meet their loved ones across the sea. Middle-earth was just a temporary home to them, and leaving it was a valid option at any time.

Dwarves, on the other hand… Fili glanced down at the table where he unconsciously had been picking with his thumbnail at an inlaid detail. Some said that upon death dwarves returned to the stone Mahal had carved them from, others said they were gathered in the Halls of Mandos. There was some philosophical consensus that in a complicated manner explained how the two theories were actually two sides of the same coin, but Fili didn’t want to bother trying to remember those nuances right now.

He had nibbled free a tiny stone detail, and it fell under the table. Damn. That was not the way to treat ancient furniture.

“How _do_ you feel?” Tauriel asked quietly.

Like a stupid failure, Fili wanted to snap at her. Like my heart won’t stop bleeding, and like my mind is not my own anymore. Like I’ve let down every single one of my kin.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

Tauriel cast a glance around the library as if wondering what to say to that.

"As you wish, Fili. So long as Dwalin is not too worried... He does seem to know you well. Better than I, in any case."

“Can you bring me back to my room?” she asked. “I’m still not allowed to walk freely around the mountain. And I can’t find my own way yet.”

Fili shrugged and got up from his chair. “Sure. It's the least I can do.”

 

* * *

 

“Green bed sheets? Why am I not surprised?” He grinned when Tauriel lit her candle and turned around. He sobered quickly though. “I heard that you got your things back from Mirkwood...”

Tauriel nodded. “I expected it. I was surprised when nothing was broken or missing.”

Fili glanced around the room, stormy blue eyes taking in every detail, and Tauriel felt herself grow still in his presence. There was something ancient in his stance, an imperturbable steadiness. Had it been there before? When he stood before the throne, when he led her through the tunnels, when he sat by the fire as she stitched up his wounds? She couldn’t remember.

“Do _you_ want to talk about what happened?” he asked.

Surprised, Tauriel looked away. What could she talk about?

“You and your people have been kinder to me than I had any right to expect. I’m given the opportunity to help, and to weigh in with my opinion. I’m alright, Fili.”

“And what about Kili?”

Tauriel’s breath caught. Memory of a fire moon, a promise carved in stone, rough hands and soft voice, and brown eyes shining bright on a lakeshore amid wreckage and loss.

“He was… He was a brave fighter, Fili. I regret his death deeply.”

“And?” Fili pressed.

A path not taken. A future that never was.

“And nothing,” Tauriel said.

“Uh-huh.”

She sighed in relief as Fili dropped the issue. She was not going to start killing herself with this _again_. She should bid Fili goodnight and then find her hand wraps before going to sleep. She had found some in the boxes her King sent her, and then stashed them away… somewhere. She wanted to sneak in another sword training session tomorrow before breakfast, and wraps would be nice for what Dwalin called her “tender tree-princess skin”. That is, if she managed to find the way to the gate and then back to her room without anyone, or at least, without Balin noticing.

Meanwhile Fili had stepped over to the back wall where her washbasin stood on a rickety table. He held his right hand extended, palm outwards as if asking somebody to shush, head bent as if listening.

“Fili? What is it?”

He shook his head and stepped closer to the wall, drawing his hand along the smooth stone. He frowned again, then glanced up at the ceiling.

“That vent up there,” he asked, “does it work?”

Tauriel shrugged. “There are several other vents here.” She pointed them out to Fili. “If you are wondering about the mushroom smell, then I do not know where it comes from.”

“I think it’s from this one. And I think I know where it might go.” The dwarf ran a hand through his hair, eyebrows still drawn in a frown. Then he took a deep breath and patted the wall as if it was the flank of some huge pony. “It’s alright.”

He flashed her a tired smile as he walked back to the door.

“Sleep well, Tauriel.”

“You too, Fili.”

The elf watched him leave, the orange glow of his torch receding down the hallway and then disappearing around a corner.

 

* * *

 

Down this stair and then turn right.

Fili felt his grip on the torch tightening. Through the Gallery of the Dead?

Yes, my prince.

The Mountain sounded… contrite, and Fili almost chuckled at the absurd image. An ancient spirit of stone and ore, large as a mountain, filled to the brim with power and pain, and now it was acting like a puppy that had pissed in its master’s boots. That is, if a puppy could exude guilt and veiled disappointment at the same time.

Fili stopped in the middle of a corridor. I don’t want to go there, he told her.

But you should, the Mountain pointed out with a sliver of annoyance.

I’m _not_ going past the tombs of my brother and my uncle. He glared at the shadowy ceiling. I am not going there!

The stone trembled beneath his feet, a toxic shiver of her anger, shame and clamped-down fear running through Fili as he leaned against a wall. For a moment, his vision swam, but then he tightened his jaw and straightened up again. He was not going to pass out here, alone and in the dark.

“Show me another way,” he demanded.

The stone sighed, reining in her impatience. Go right. Then up, straight through the alloy masters’ quarter. Then down three levels, and then turn back right. Trust your stone sense. I’ll lead you.

 

When, at the end of his trip, he saw the pale caps of Silver Stonedew glistening with a wet, slimy sheen as far as his torchlight reached down the narrow passageway, Fili sat down cross-legged on the floor. He put the torch down and ran his hands through his already messy hair, wild laughter bubbling up in his chest and echoing eerily in the deep darkness around him.

“Oh, mother will love this,” he chuckled. “You know, back home, she always reminisced on the stonedew dishes of her childhood. Thank you for keeping them, Erebor.”

Next time, take the shortcut, the Mountain grumbled, but Fili could sense her pleasure.

Maybe some other time, he cautiously promised. I’ll tell others though. Bombur will be delighted, and Balin probably will know how to set up mushroom farming again. We’d be less dependent on trade agreements.

Fili got a feeling that the Mountain snorted, and then bit down on her incorporeal tongue. Yeah, he knew there was only so much he could do as a mere prince, he didn't need another reminder. 

It was what it was. And there was no chance he was taking the shortcut through the Gallery of the Dead as he slowly made way back to his chambers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw an idea or headcanon somewhere that, although the majority of food was imported from Dale or Esgaroth, there was also some mushroom farming going on in Erebor, as well as bat husbandry and fishing in underground pools. I think it was even proposed that dwarven cuisine could incorporate also some large insects or worms, kinda like SE Asia. Because I love Tauriel, I'll stop at bats and fish.


	7. Lies of Omission and Stories Untold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About six weeks have passed, and things are not that pretty.

 

It was the dead of the night, the long, empty hours before dawn, late and bleak as it would be around the middle of the winter. There was no moon, no stars. The sky was overcast, and every now and then a cold sleet, half rain and half snow, would come down in a miserable combination with gusty wind.

Tauriel leaned on the parapet of her guard post above the main gate, looking out into the darkness. Her sight was of little use here and now, and there was nothing to listen for either — no movement at the gate or on the slopes, no sign of friend or foe on the road from Dale and the empty fields beyond.

She shivered and stepped back to the wall, which offered some protection against the capricious wind. Her cloak was wet and her hands were cold, but she didn’t mind. Almost two months spent in the mountain had not yet made her forget sleepless nights spent in guard posts high in the ancient trees of Mirkwood. Sometimes it had been a wooden platform slippery with rain or ice, and sometimes just a rope securing her against a fall, stars so close and so bright she thought she could simply pluck them from heaven and put them in her pocket.

Turuhalme, the new year, would soon be upon them. Back home they would draw a log around the Elvenking’s Halls, warding off the evil and praying to the Valar that they bless the following year. Bonfires would be lit in the old oak grove down by River Running. There would be colourful lanterns strung from the old, gnarled branches; there would be singing and dancing in the snow. Later they would play riddle games and tell fairytales — the old and strange ones that had carried over from the times of the Nandor, the times before the sun and moon, when evil creatures crawled these lands and the woodland elves knew no iron and no kings.

Did the dwarves celebrate the coming of a new year? Did they feast and dance too? What stories did their elders tell?

Oh, but they had already had their new year, on Durin’s Day, hadn’t they? A year that had started with such brave hopes and promises, and then turned it all to ash.

Tauriel pulled the cloak tighter against her and glanced out over the slopes once more.

 

* * *

 

The five of them were sitting around a massive oak table down in the archives, a group of tallow candles illuminating their work. The full inventory of the mountain had been finished by Dain’s soldiers only a few days ago, and now the lists needed to be reviewed, resources listed in separate groups, reconstruction efforts planned for the dwellings, halls, workshops, forges, mines and other facilities carved under the mountain. 

Tauriel sighed as she put down her pen and leaned on the table, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She had no idea what time it was. Afternoon? Evening? She had skipped lunch, placating others with a promise to drop in by the kitchen later, but how long ago had it been?

“You alright?” Fili asked from across her, his usual slightly dishevelled hair gleaming gold in the low light of the room.

“I am,” Tauriel muttered. “All this darkness gets me sometimes. It’ll pass.”

“Mirkwood was quite murky too, Miss Tauriel,” Ori spoke up, a shy brown glance darting in her direction even as he continued accurately copying the items from inventory lists into a new priority repairs list. Balin looked up too, his sharp glance shifting warily from Ori to Tauriel. Oin probably hadn’t heard anything as he sat frowning at a floor plan.

Tauriel sat back and shook out her forearm, willing the muscles to relax. It wasn’t the first day they’d had been working on those lists.

“The Halls were well-lit,” she said. “And I could always climb up to the tree tops to bask in the sun for a while. Also, it’s lighter by the river and in winter when the trees shed their leaves.”

Balin cleared his throat before dipping his pen in an inkpot and starting on a new page. “Our Bilbo climbed up too, before the spiders attacked us. We were… a bit lost.”

“He told me he saw the most amazing bright blue butterflies up there,” Ori said with a soft smile. “I hope his return journey is much quicker and less… Less involved with spiders.”

“Gandalf went with him,” Balin reassured him. “I wouldn’t worry, my lad.”

Tauriel leaned across the table to see what was confusing the healer. She sighed as she recognized her own clumsy runes. She hadn’t had much previous practice with Cirth when she had started helping Ori with copying the floor plans for Dain all those weeks ago. On the other hand, Ori had said her writing was still better than Dwalin’s. It was improving too, the angular strokes of her runes growing bolder and cleaner.

“I think they should have reached Beorn’s house by now…” Fili started and then trailed off, his pen suddenly stuck to the page. Ori sighed, then reined in his frustration and passed him a scrap of blotting paper. Being appointed the head archivist had done wonders for the shy young scribe's confidence. Fili muttered a quick thank you and bent over the page, trying to salvage his writing.

“That was Bilbo’s plan,” Balin confirmed. “They’d continue to Rivendell in the spring, and then it’d take them just a few weeks to reach the Shire.”

“Oh, Rivendell!” Oin had broken through Tauriel’s scribbles, fished out his hearing horn from his pocket and decided to join the banter. “Terrible food! Terrible music too. I hope poor Bilbo is not forced to tarry there long.”

“Music?” Tauriel asked, her curiosity piqued. “What kind of music did they have?”

Oin waved his hand dismissively. “Some kind of elven nonsense. Sorry, Miss Tauriel. But it was so lifeless it was probably meant to put people to sleep.”

Balin and Ori chuckled, and even Fili smirked at Tauriel.

“Some kind of string instruments and flutes,” the prince explained. “Very subtle and flowing. Very elvish.”

Tauriel smiled. "Well, do you play any _dwarvish_ instruments then?"

"Fiddle..." Fili's gaze grew distant for a moment before he composed himself again, a lively spark lighting up in his eyes. "There were none in Rivendell though."

“So you paid attention to the instruments? Or were you taken by the players, like Kili?” Oin good-naturedly teased the prince.

Ori groaned as he smacked his forehead laughing. “Mahal, I almost forgot! How did Kili put it? All high cheekbones…?”

Fili groaned too and hid his face in his palms.

“Creamy skin, not enough facial hair...” Oin chuckled.

“Lad was certainly paying attention,” Balin added.

Ori brushed the tears of laughter from his eyes. “I think it was one of his best jokes, honestly. Elf maids!”

"And it wasn't even a maid he was eyeing!" Oin's shoulders were shaking with mirth. "Oh, his look when Dwalin told him that!"

Tauriel stared at them as they tried to breathe deep and calm down, only to remember something else about Kili’s misdirected and impossibly funny attraction to elves. Only Fili tried to stay calm, his eyes hidden behind his hand, jaw clenched in embarrassment. Even so the corners of his lips were tugging upwards involuntarily.

Something inside her snapped.

“Kili was mortally injured fighting for your freedom,” Tauriel seethed. Her unexpectedly chilly tone affected the dwarves like a bucket of ice. “Fili and Master Oin here saw with their own eyes what torment a morgul shaft inflicts, what pain Kili suffered! And mere seven weeks ago he gave his life," she gestured angrily at the floor plans before her, "for this mountain. For his uncle, for all of you! Don’t you think… a little…” Words caught in her throat. “A little respect…”

“ _We do_ ,” Fili cut in emphatically, hand outstretched towards her across the wide table as if to calm her. “Kili has our _utmost_ respect, Tauriel. He will _always_ have it, despite any appearance of levity.”

“Fili’s right,” Balin nodded, his voice suddenly subdued and serious. “But Kili was a bright lad. He loved songs and merriment, and we respect that too, Miss Tauriel. It wouldn’t be right to only honour his sacrifice, to forget the laughter he brought us.”

“So you think…? You're saying I don’t…?” Stumped for words, it took all of Tauriel’s willpower to stay in the chair and not simply leave, slamming the door in their faces. Balin was right there, and he wouldn’t take kindly to her running around the mountain on her own. Or, Fili would run after her, and try to read her battered heart like only he could, and… and… She _knew_ Kili, Tauriel wanted to scream. She knew how kind and perceptive, how imaginative and how recklessly brave he was! Did they think him finding some fondness for an elf was so out of the question, so _laughably_ impossible?

Did they think it had all been a _joke_?

“Alright.” Fili slammed his hand on the table and put away his writing tools. “Time for a break. Bombur might still have some of that stonedew sauce with potatoes left from lunch. What do you say we try and get seconds?”

The other dwarves murmured their agreement, obviously relieved to change the subject and stretch their legs for a bit.

“I’ll stay,” Tauriel announced, hoping they didn't notice her voice trembling. She crossed her arms and levelled her gaze at Fili as he hesitated by the door. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

For a moment, Fili seemed torn between staying and going, but the stare Tauriel gave him probably convinced him that she was not going to talk about what just happened anyway.

Tauriel closed her eyes as the door shut behind them. They just didn’t know. They had no idea who Kili was to her. She wasn’t sure she knew either, but it certainly hadn’t been a joke.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin slumped in his chair, stroking his thick beard thoughtfully. Fili stifled a yawn.

It wasn’t even late anymore, it was almost morning, and still the Council had not agreed on the details proposed by Dale. Fili felt tired to the bones, long hours day after day spent going over inventory lists not helping any. He still felt bad about that incident in the archives too. A couple days had passed, and still he hadn't managed to speak with Tauriel in private without raising any undue suspicion. Somehow, she had grown surprisingly busy. Independent too. After helping Ori with those floor plans weeks ago, she now knew the mountain pretty well. Luckily, neither Balin, nor Dain or any other conservatively leaning dwarf had caught her wandering about yet.

“Grain is overpriced. We don’t need such a large amount of vegetables either, so that price should go down too,” Dwalin grumbled. 

"We do need vegetables," Fili argued half-heartedly as he stifled another yawn.

“It’s the middle of the winter,” Dain reminded them pointedly. “We’ve been going round and round this agreement for weeks now, and it’s still not signed. You don’t have many options, not if you want to buy directly from Dorwinion like we do.”

Balin seemed to be doing some calculations in his head. “With three hundred of your warriors still stationed in the Mountain…” Dain crossed his arms. “I’d say the price _is_ a major consideration.”

Fili huffed. “We have a whole mountain of gold, Balin. Bard could put it to good use.”

“But you have to think for the future,” Balin disagreed. “If he sees us relenting so easily, he will push the prices up even higher next year.”

“Yeah, well, we can haggle then.”

“Until Dale turns the fields and starts growing wheat and barley locally, I can’t see what else you can do,” Dain argued. “Prices are what they are.”

“So says the Lord of the Iron Hills.” Dwalin levelled a heavy stare at Dain.

“Yes, Dwalin, exactly: so says our friend and ally!” Balin snapped. “We are grateful for your expertise, Lord Dain.”

Fili pinched the bridge of his nose. “We could ask Tauriel, if you’re unconvinced, Dwalin. She’s a local, she would know the prices. Why's she not at this meeting anyway?”

“I left the message pinned to her door as usual,” Dwalin said.

“She probably missed it,” Dain spoke up. “One of my lads knocked his head in the tunnels, and the elf has agreed to fill in for him guarding the main gate.”

“She’s guarding the gate? Now?” Fili exchanged a surprised glance with Dwalin.

Dain shrugged. “She offered, before my chief of the watch could rearrange the roster. I think it’s the third or fourth night now. The lads appreciate her help.”

“Look, if you prefer her tucked in the bed at this hour, I’ll send someone to relieve her,” he continued, pushing away the chair and standing up. “It’s not my elf, and it’s not my mountain, so do as you wish. Consult her all you like. But you really don’t have much time to continue arguing the details of that agreement.”

“With that, I bid you good night, cousins.”

Balin watched him go with a strange expression that was part dismay and part relief. Finally he sighed and sagged back in his chair.

“He is right,” Balin said. “Buying from the Iron Hills would be more expensive, with the trade route longer and more dangerous. We can’t afford stalling anymore. But if we could at least include an option for reopening the issue of prices at any point during the duration of the agreement…”

Fili yawned. The Mountain thought the prices were at least twice what they used to be, but then again, that had been ages ago, when there had been a healthy competition on the trade routes.

“Let’s continue tomorrow,” Fili suggested. “I have a feeling it will work out alright even if we throw in a coin or two more than all that stuff would be worth in the Blue Mountains.”

“You’re right, Fili.” Balin smiled tiredly and stood up to collect the maps and scrolls from the table. “Mahal knows this kingdom has seen its share of greed… Better bring truth to Thorin’s words, to his promises of rivers flowing with gold… In a legally sound and sustainable manner, of course!”

Thorin. Of course. The proud king, who turned out stronger even than dragon sickness. Whose vast experience, inspired words and sheer force of will would've sorted out this whole agreement in a matter of days. But nothing they could do now would bring him back, would it?

Hands clenched in fists, Fili watched Balin exit the library.

“Now, do you plan on sleeping in that chair, Master Dwalin?” he drawled.

Roused from his thoughts, Dwalin shot a dark look at Fili.

“What I plan is to find that elf and break her down till I get some answers,” he said. “And you’re coming with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you curse me for that cliffhanger, I'd like to remind you that this is a nice fic with no character deaths planned ;)
> 
> Oh, and if you're interested, I got the elven new year idea from [here](http://askmiddlearth.tumblr.com/post/70486290662/holidays-in-middle-earth).


	8. Sing of Life, For the Dead Can Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author regrets nothing.

 

“It’s _late_ , Dwalin,” Fili protested as he tried to keep up with the incensed warrior. “There is nothing you should worry about with Tauriel. I _promise_ I’ll speak with her in the morning…”

“Like you’ve talked to her these past weeks?”

“Look, it’s not like this whole–” Fili caught himself before any pitiful excuses could tumble from his lips. This whole thing had been no pleasant stroll for him either. But Dwalin was right, he should have paid more attention.

“I tried,” Fili muttered. “She didn’t want to talk.”

Dwalin stopped abruptly and turned around, momentarily blinding Fili with the orange glare of his torch. For a moment, he stood staring unseeingly at something over Fili’s shoulder, then shook himself and took a deep breath.

“I know you still hurt, lad,” he said. “I know how you’ve been pushing yourself, for all of us.”

“I do wish you could rage and break things, and get that sadness out and done with,” he continued, “but not everyone is like that. Your mother isn’t. Your uncle Frerin wasn’t either. I reckon Thorin had enough rage for all three of them...”

Fili’s eyebrows rose. He'd never thought Dwalin was so perceptive to the moods of others.

“It appears you know my mother well,” he ventured. “Better than many she’d consider close friends or kin.”

The older warrior’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly.

“I’ve known and admired her my entire life, Fili,” he admitted. “She is the keystone of your line. And in her — after Azanulbizar — I learned to see how deep the embers of sorrow can hide, how bitterly a secret pain can maim the heart.”

“You have an eye for grief, Dwalin.”

The dwarf swallowed thickly, refusing to meet Fili’s gaze.

“She lost the life she knew and loved, she lost her place in the world,” Dwalin said quietly. “And she gained precious little in return, lad. She doesn’t mourn openly, but she hurts deeply. Some see it, some don’t.”

Fili glanced down the corridor the way they’d been heading, then returned his gaze to his mentor.

“Dwalin,” he asked, “are you talking about Dis or Tauriel now?”

 

* * *

 

She was leaning on the parapet, humming something, when he stepped out on the ledge, her hood muffling her quiet, stuttering voice. The night was still, with brilliant moonlight turning the snowy slopes the colour of molten silver. Fili let out a long breath as he stood next to her, shoulders almost touching. Surely she had heard him approach a while ago.

“Well met, Tauriel.”

“ _Mae g'ovannen_ , Fili.”

“Is that an elven ‘hello’?”

Tauriel shot him a quick smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It is.”

“Hmm.” For a while they stood, looking out over the silvery fields. The air felt brittle, an empty kind of pristine. The kind of empty that hid the ugliness, the blood and the hopes spilled on the slopes of the mountain, all covered with a thin, undisturbed cover of snow. Fili wondered why it couldn’t stay like that forever. Why did there have to come gusts of wind that tore the snow from the rocks, that made you face the past. He sighed.

“Dwalin’s worried about you,” he said. “He’s determined to get the truth out of you.”

Tauriel lowered her hood as she regarded Fili with that unnerving, steady gaze of hers.

“And what truth is that, _gwadoreg_?”

“What’s with the elvish?” Fili asked curiously, but, as it often happened, the answer came to him the moment he shut his mouth. “You miss your people.”

Tauriel nodded solemnly, looking away again, somewhere beyond the western slopes of Erebor.

“You were singing before. What was it?”

“It is a hymn to Lady Varda the Everwhite,” she said quietly. “ _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_. It is sung in the evening when the first stars come out.”

“Would you sing it for me?”

The elf shook her head. “It… hurts.”

Fili glanced down at the rough surface of the stone parapet, fingers tracing the jagged seams of the haphazardly piled rocks. A remnant of Thorin’s fortification against the host of lakemen and elves. Swallowing thickly, Fili decided to get to the bottom of this, because Dwalin had relented to give him just the few hours till the morning, and he would not be mincing words if he still felt he needed to talk with Tauriel himself.

“Kili loved singing too,” Fili said, wincing as he saw Tauriel flinch at his words. “More at parties or during work than in any serene manner in the evenings, but yeah.”

 A wispy cloud passed before the moon and then sailed further east. White stars like sharp-edged diamonds continued twinkling indifferently above them. Fili almost missed her question.

“What did he sing?”

Fili smiled. “Tavern songs, mostly.” He stared down at the parapet willing his voice not to shake. “Ballads to a merry tune, full of wordplay and mischief. But he also…” He traced a thin white line in the basalt. “He knew all those epic poems, lays and laments Thorin taught us. Those were reserved for dark winter evenings or the quiet of the night as we sat guarding a campfire.”

Tauriel didn’t say anything to that.

“Look, Tauriel, I’m sorry I brought…”

“Take me to his grave,” Tauriel cut him off.

Fili stared at the elf, her thin shoulders drawn up tight under the cloak, her lips a stubborn line under shadowy, hard eyes. The heaviness of a long day, of a long week settled in Fili’s bones. But he nodded. Of course he nodded.

 

* * *

 

The dwarven prince led her down crumbling passages and broken stairs. The torch flickered in his hand, casting dancing shadows on the columns and pilasters decorating the hallways they passed through. The immensity of the quietly sleeping mountain weighed down on Tauriel, but she ignored it as stubbornly as the ache in her heart.

She didn’t know what had prompted her to ask this of Fili. A part of her regretted it already, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to stop now. Down and down they went, deep into the bowels of the mountain, and not once did Fili look back at her or falter in his step.

Only at the entrance to the Gallery of the Dead did he stop, suddenly shaking his head as if dispelling grim thoughts. Tauriel drew a ragged breath and met Fili’s gaze, suddenly realizing that there was no other living, breathing soul for what may well be miles of labyrinthine, dark steps and halls. They were alone with the dead.

With a sideways glance at the lever that held up a massive, wrought iron portcullis, Fili stepped into the gallery, Tauriel following soundlessly on his heels.

They passed the tombs of ancient kings and princes, the engraved runes of their names and titles familiar and unintelligible at the same time. _Angerthas Erebor_ it was called, a local Khuzdul variation of Cirth. Tauriel knew the mountain’s history vaguely, the adventures of Durin's Folk making it a jumbled story, not unlike the patchwork quilt on her bed. Erebor had been a mine, and then a colony, and then they had all moved to the Grey Mountains, then came back, and then lost it to Smaug... Now they were back once again.

Fili stopped at the two newest tombs at the very end of the gallery, the warm torchlight illuminating freshly cut runes on their surface and simple geometric ornaments on the plinth, their angles sharp and clean. He passed a shaky hand over the inscription on the simpler tomb.

“Here lies Kili, son of Dis, prince of Erebor,” he translated for her.

Hesitating, Tauriel put her hands on the top slab of the tomb, her fingers splaying as she felt how cold and smooth the stone was, how accurate the engravings. She stood there, lost for words, breath caught in her throat. Out of a corner of her eye, she saw Fili turn around towards the other tomb, but all this unmoving stone was… it felt wrong somehow. An untruth she couldn’t quite put into words.

This was definitely not what she had expected.

She had been afraid she’d break down sobbing. She’d thought maybe she would be moved to sing after all, something sorrowful and heartfelt. But none of the traditional laments seemed fitting now that she was facing the tomb of her… of her what?

Her _friend_. For all the other might-have-been’s, Kili had certainly been a friend.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the weight of at least half her doubts and what-ifs falling from her shoulders. Unbidden, half-forgotten lines of a Nandorin poem rose to her mind:

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_

_I am not there. I do not sleep._

Tauriel brushed her hands over the granite slab, so unmoving, so frozen in time and reverent silence. No, there was nothing of Kili in the quiet, cold stone.

Kili was in the orange, flickering, warm flame of the torch, in the merry drip-drip-drip sound of water trickling somewhere far away, in her memories of the timid touch of his calloused fingers, in his tales of a fire moon and starlight. The stone beneath her hands had nothing to do with the stubborn, piercing, amused look in his dark eyes, the vulnerability breaking through in his voice, the way he broke and crushed all the preconceptions of the world she had held. Tauriel leaned on the slab, momentarily overwhelmed.

_Do not stand at my grave and cry;_

_I am not there. I did not die._

She took another reviving, deep breath and straightened up, glancing over at Fili. He was standing between the two tombs, torch still burning bright in his hand. It almost concealed how pale he was. It almost hid the tightness around his eyes or the blankness in his stare.

“Fili?”

When he didn’t respond, Tauriel took the torch from his unprotesting grasp and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. It was time she took care of the living. Like in a dream, he let himself be walked slowly back to the entrance. He stopped for a moment when they reached the stairs, heaving a broken sigh and running a hand through his hair.

He rose his hand, linking his fingers with hers on his shoulder as they started walking up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Fili walked in a daze as he led Tauriel through the mountain. He was missing whole chunks of time, _again_. He didn’t remember walking down to the Gallery of the Dead, just finding himself in front of its entrance. He didn’t remember much from the gallery either, just the dull ache in his heart that reverberated in his mind and bones, reflected by the Mountain herself, a half-contained, simmering lament for all its kings and princes, for all her dead children lost over the ages.

And then it had fallen quiet. Apparently, he had somehow managed to evict the voices from his head once more. He wasn’t sure how he had done it. Most probably, he was slowly losing his mind, despite temporary episodes of clarity. At the moment, however, he wasn’t even sure he still cared. He _had_ gone down and faced the tombs of his kin. The fact itself brought him a small sense of satisfaction.

It was almost dawn. Balin would probably call another meeting before midday, to continue discussing that damn agreement with Dale. The Council still hadn’t figured out who was going to sign it on behalf of the Mountain. Balin had been muttering something about there being no such precedent and therefore no legislation to give the signatory power to anyone else but the King. And Fili still didn’t feel he could be the King they needed.

But Dain was growing restless. He wanted to return to the Iron Hills, because there were issues there that needed his attention. They couldn’t expect him to stay much longer, but neither was Dain willing to leave Erebor unprotected until that agreement was signed. It was about an alliance as much as about trade.

By the Stone, Fili was so _tired_. 

Hopefully he would manage at least a few hours of sleep before that meeting though. He squeezed Tauriel’s warm, slender fingers as they came to a landing where a richly decorated hallway split off to their right.

“This leads to your chambers?” she asked quietly. “I could walk with you. You don’t seem well.”

Fili shook his head. “No, it’s alright. It’s not far, just through that tailors' quarter and then down a bit. I’d rest easier if you were back in your room. Balin is an early riser.”

Tauriel nodded thoughtfully. With a slight frown she looked up the stairs. Fili followed her gaze as he tried to remember the floor plans.

“Go up one level and then turn into the hallway above this one,” Fili instructed the elf, gently removing her hand from his shoulder. Such a slender, small hand it was. “At the end, turn right and go up two more levels. That should lead you to the corridor that passes the kitchens. Do you know the way from there?”

Again, Tauriel nodded. “I remember.”

“Take the torch.” The elf looked at him in surprise. “I know my way better than you, elven eyes or not.” Fili gave her a lopsided grin. “I can sense my way underground. It’s a dwarven thing.”

“Is that how you led me here through those tunnels from Dale?” she mused. “Or how you never stumbled over my furniture that one time when you fell asleep in my room?” Tauriel smiled at him, a gentle teasing spark in her eyes.

Fili chuckled. “It has its uses.”

“Good night, Fili. Rest well.”

For a while, he stood on the landing, watching the torchlight illuminate Tauriel’s soft smile as she climbed the stairs. When she disappeared behind a bend, he sighed and started on his own way. Something nagged him about that staircase he’d sent Tauriel off to, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Ohh, and he’d forgotten to ask her to come to that meeting later. Damn, his memory was so hopeless. He yawned. He was too tired to run after her now. Her expert view on prices will have to wait then.

Back in his rooms, Fili fell asleep the moment he flopped down on his bed.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel was walking along the upstairs gallery, tired from the long day that had started with a training session at dawn and ended with visiting Kili’s grave. The poem had brought up memories of other old songs, some of them all but forgotten at the Elvenking’s court. But Tauriel came from an old line, and her kin still remembered the Nandorin folktales about the secrets of a once green forest, about the rider in the dark, about the stars shining on the shores of Cuiviénen. There was less grace and ethereal harmony in those songs, but there was also… more life. Her ancestors had been a merry, stubborn, wild lot before King Oropher, fleeing the ruin of Beleriand, had decided to settle in Mirkwood with his son Thranduil and other Sindar lords.

The old songs did not rely on hopes of meeting once more in the West. Instead they celebrated the continuity of life, the sacred, little wonders that made it all worth. And Tauriel thought there was strength in that continuity.

The gallery seemed to have suffered more damage than other corridors she had seen this far. Some of the columns were broken, lying in massive pieces along the walls or across her path. Some rubble had fallen from the ceiling too. Tauriel huffed a sigh as she encountered another pile of broken stones and climbed over it. To be honest, such vast damage was concerning. Hopefully, she wouldn’t find her way blocked completely, because it looked like Fili had based his directions for her on some maps or floor plans instead of first-hand experience.

She hopped down from the top of the pile, landing nimbly on another large block of stone. Then the block moved from under her feet and rolled down, bringing with itself a number of other rocks. Tauriel yelped as the torch fell from her hand and disappeared somewhere beneath the rubble.

Suddenly, it was dark, and loud, and she couldn’t understand what was happening, except that nothing was stable, nothing was flat and solid! She lost her balance as something boomed to her right, a tremor ran under her hands where she had fallen on some jagged stones, and then there came a deep, low wailing sound like the groaning of ancient oaks during the most vicious thunderstorm she could imagine.

Something huge collapsed, luckily missing her but not by much, judging from the hail of smaller stones she was pelted with. Tauriel cried out in blind panic, and then bent over coughing, fine dust settling in her throat. And then something groaned above her.

“No, no, no, no! FILI! Anyone!”

She screamed as she scrambled away from the already fallen thing, probably a column. A column that must have held up the ceiling…

Blindly, she hit her hand against something that felt like a doorframe, and tumbled past it, hoping it was some smaller room that might protect her from the crumbling gallery. The floor was uneven, sloping away from the door, and Tauriel half-slid, half-tumbled her way to the back wall, where she crashed into some shelf. Next, there was an avalanche of glass containers breaking over her back and head, shards falling all around her.

Then, apparently, the gallery’s ceiling caved in, because after another series of booms and crashes, another cloud of dust reached Tauriel’s eyes and nostrils.

She coughed, tried to push herself up on hands and knees, and cried out as she cut herself on the broken glass. It was so dark she could as well be blinded. She drew a ragged breath, and then, senseless, fell back on the floor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mae g'ovannen_ — Well met  
>  _Gwadoreg_ — My sworn brother  
>  The "Nandorin" poem is a quite popular one by Mary Elizabeth Frye.


	9. Roots in Stone I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili steps up for the resident elf.

Their stubborn, secretive leaf sprite had skipped breakfast. Again. Finishing his own fried sausages with scrambled eggs, Dwalin grabbed a plate, piled it high with white bread, honey and dried fruit – things that Bombur and Dori recommended as Tauriel’s favourites – and stomped down the hallway.

When nobody answered his banging on the door, he entered Tauriel’s room but found no sign of the elf. The bed didn’t even appear to be slept in. Dwalin put the plate down on the drawer chest by the door and considered his options.

The guard that Dain had sent to relieve her had apparently met her and Fili in the corridor, already leaving the ledge, and that had been a few hours before the dawn. Dwalin hadn’t been happy at the news that they had left the post unguarded, even for a short time, but nothing bad had happened so frankly he didn’t care about it right now.

Reluctantly, he went and checked Fili’s quarters, thinking maybe they had talked so late that Tauriel had fallen asleep in one of the armchairs by the fire. But no, there was no willowy elf sprawled out anywhere, just Fili snoring quietly in his nest of blankets. Careful not to wake him, Dwalin left once more.

He went to Balin and asked, as nonchalantly as he could, if he’d given any new task to Tauriel. He hadn’t. His brother supposed she might be in the archive and told him not to worry, surely she is with whoever had taken her there. Dwalin huffed as he left, wondering how his elder brother could sometimes be so wilfully naïve. The elf had been wandering around unattended for weeks now.

Nobody had taken Tauriel anywhere, and nobody had seen her since last night – those he’d met at breakfast thought she’d be in her room sleeping after the night shift, and others offered various guesses involving Balin or Fili; or Nori and Bofur, who had also gone off somewhere. Even Dain’s chief of the watch had denied any knowledge of her whereabouts. Dwalin hadn’t shared with them his growing worry, hoping still that it was unfounded.

He checked the training ledge outside of the main gate where he and Tauriel often spent their early mornings brushing up her longsword skills. It was empty, as was the archive or several other places he thought to look for her.

The elf was nowhere to be found.

 

***

It took Fili a while to finally shake the cobwebs of sleep from his mind as he woke, groggy and still tired despite it being almost midday. The Mountain was clawing at him, screaming something, but Fili had had enough and, like the day before, something slammed shut in his mind, and it was quiet once again.

He blinked as he noticed Dwalin sitting by the cold, empty grate, munching thoughtfully on some bread. In fact, there was a whole plate of light food balanced precariously on one of the armrests.

“Could’ve woken me up rather than just sitting there,” Fili grumbled as he cast off the blanket and got up. A sudden dizzy spell, a strong sense of the deepest anxiety, made him lean against a bedpost, but it passed quickly. “You still want to tear into Tauriel’s secrets?”

Standing up, Dwalin crossed his arms, his heavy gaze following Fili to the washbasin. The cool water felt wonderful on his face, but Dwalin’s next words hit him like a rockslide.

“She’s missing. You apparently saw her last. Care to tell me what you talked about, to send her running or hiding, or wherever the hell is she?”

Leaning over the pewter bowl, Fili stared unseeing at his own reflection in the water.

He had just… No. This couldn’t be happening again. Not with Tauriel. How could she be missing? People don’t go missing just like that, in the middle of the night on their way to their room.

The Mountain was clawing at his mind, trying to break through the barriers he had erected to try and protect his fraying sanity. There was something about those corridors and stairs they’d passed yesterday…

He barely felt Dwalin’s heavy hand coming to rest on his shoulder when the hallway door to his quarters slammed against the wall and the straight view through the library revealed an anxious, pissed off Nori pushing forward a similarly dishevelled and annoyed Bofur.

“You tell them what you just told me!” Nori yelled, pushing the miner by the shoulder.

In a blink of an eye, Dwalin was standing in front of them. “What is going on?”

“I want him to tell the Council…” Nori started and then looked around, confused. “Where’s your Council? They were supposed to be here!”

“Meeting’s delayed,” Dwalin growled. “So? Tell them what?”

Bofur shook Nori’s hand from his shoulder. “The glassblowers’ quarter,” he snapped. “It’s caved in.”

“I knew _last week_ that it was going to cave in! I tried to warn everyone, but when have you ever listened to me?” Nori ranted. “No, you miners and pig-headed crown searchers know better!”

“We do know better!” Bofur exclaimed. “Your stone sense is as muddled as your brain! You can’t make head or tails of it without some engineering knowledge!”

“And what does your engineering knowledge say? Does it give you any brilliant insights about the carpenters’ quarter, which is _going to cave in next_?”

“Where is carpenters’?” Fili asked, wondering as his voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. He found himself standing in the doorway of his bedroom, a wet towel still in his hands.

“Above the glassblowers’,” Dwalin replied, his voice grim. “Is it true, Bofur?”

The miner took a deep breath. “We’re just coming from there.” He shot a nasty look at Nori. “Unlike some panic bearers, I was able to determine that the structure is damaged but stable. Unless it’s disturbed by hasty, poorly planned repair works or something like that, it should hold for the time being.”

Fili watched as Dwalin’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly, the whole room and everyone in it cast in crystal clarity, sharp like an obsidian knife and almost unreal.

He remembered that it was the glassblowers’ quarter he had sent Tauriel through last night. He remembered that the Mountain herself had warned him of the unstable, damaged structure weeks ago when he and Dwalin had made their cursory inspection of the Mountain.

A black sense of loss overwhelmed Fili, drowning out the voices of the others. Who cared about Nori’s chaotic premonitions or Bofur’s sensible, precise assessments? Who cared if others had not felt the collapse at all? Fili knew who had fucked up the most. Even inside Erebor, in a time of peace, Fili had failed to keep Tauriel safe.

Fili leaned against the doorframe, trying to ward off another dizzy spell as the Mountain pushed relentlessly against his mind.

His bloody carelessness had killed Tauriel. His absolutely useless, patchy, fucking memory, and his selfish laziness that had let her go alone, and now she was gone, buried somewhere under tons of rubble…

“Nobody’s seen her this morning,” Dwalin’s defeated voice broke through to Fili. “Nobody knows where she is.”

“You don’t think she’s…” Bofur stared at Dwalin, his face as pale as a sheet.

Nori clenched his fists as he suddenly shot a look at Fili.

“If our missy is simply dead, why is the Mountain _screaming_?”

 

***

Fili ran after Dwalin, vaguely registering his no-nonsense instructions to the others. Bofur took off to get Dain and his crown-searching team. Nori was sent off to find Balin and the rest of the company. The meaning behind Nori’s words had knocked over whatever coherence Fili had managed to muster, and thoughts reeled in his head like the white rapids of River Running.

Nori heard the Mountain too. Had heard her during the failed coronation as well, most likely. Fili was not crazy. Even Bofur had accepted Nori’s words, though he criticized him for vagueness and undue emotion.

The Mountain clawed at him, pressed against him, overwhelmed him with a sense of dread even if he had forced her to remain silent. How had he done that? How had he silenced a primordial spirit?

He almost ran into Dwalin as the warrior turned a corner and suddenly stopped, gaping at the wall of rubble blocking the passage into the glassblowers’ quarter. Balin and Oin were already there, pacing and arguing about how to proceed.

“The others?” Dwalin asked.

“On their way,” Balin said. “Nori told us what happened, and then ran off to get the others.”

Dwalin growled and hit the wall in impotent rage. “It’s my fault, Balin! I should have blocked access to the corridor weeks ago. I didn’t think anyone would have any need to venture there!”

“They didn’t!” Balin spread his hands helplessly. “Least of all Miss Tauriel! How did this even happen? Was she alone, or is anyone else missing?”

Oin shook his head, eyeing the fallen blocks of stone warily. “There is very little chance Miss Tauriel has somehow survived this cave-in.”

Fili scrunched his eyes shut as he leaned on a wall. _He_ had sent Tauriel through there. _He_ had failed to ascertain the safety of the passage.

Dain, Bombur, Nori and Ori joined them soon, Dain’s booming voice penetrating Fili’s black despair as he demanded what had happened. Dwalin started to explain, when Bofur and Gloin joined them, leading the other dwarves that had been searching for the crown, armed with explosives, shovels and pickaxes.

“You know what happened.” Nori’s quiet voice snagged Fili’s attention amid the storm of rising arguments. “You hear it better than me, don’t you? I’m not crazy, I know I’m not.”

Fili clenched his teeth as he looked into the shifty, worried eyes of the spy. Against his better judgement, he nodded.

“It’s just stone sense, right? Really off the scale, but stone sense nonetheless.” Nori laughed nervously. “What is it telling you?”

Fili glanced at the blocked passage. “I don’t know.”

“But you can hear it?”

“Yes. Sometimes. I...”

“Fili, you’re not crazy. Whatever everyone else thinks, it’s real.”

Fili shook his head, dread coiling in his gut at the thought of what Nori wanted him to do. What they all needed him to do, to get to Tauriel.

“I can’t control it, it’s too much,” he protested. “I shut her out. I don’t want to go there again.”

“Her? You shut…? How did you...” Nori sputtered as he was shoved aside by Dwalin.

“What’s going on?”

“Well, our prince here may have the strongest stone sense since Durin the Deathless, and he just fucking shut it off, is what’s going on!”

“It never was this strong, alright?” Fili glared at Nori and Dwalin both, well aware how almost everyone else by this point had turned towards them. “Neither back home, nor when we crossed through the goblin tunnels, I never heard any fucking voices in my head!”

“Well, why don’t you kindly listen to them now and help my pickaxe brigade over here _get_ _you your_ _elf back_!” Dain’s voice carried over anything Nori, Dwalin or Balin had been about to say.

Fili stared at his companions, the look of confusion, worry, disbelief and tentative hope on their faces.

“Come on, Fili.” Dwalin stepped closer, clasping his forearm. “Can you sense where Tauriel is?”

Fili swallowed hard. He had failed to protect Thorin and his brother, had failed everyone at the coronation, and now had failed to protect Tauriel too. What was a little bit more of embarrassment and loss of control, added to that?

Leaning on Dwalin, he gave in and almost collapsed as he let the wall crumble in his mind, the cries of the Mountain finally tearing through him in a flood.

“Glassware shop,” he gasped. “She’s alive.”

 

***

She awoke to complete and utter darkness, with shards of glass embedded in the left side of her face as she lay on the floor. She winced as the feeling returned to her battered body, her hands cut on glass and jagged stones. She fought to suppress a fit of cough, afraid to injure herself further with the movement.

Carefully, she cleared a small space on the floor, enough to rest her hand and pull her up. Her head pulsed with pain as she sat back on her heels, her soft, worn boots thick enough to protect her shins.

She had no idea how much time had passed – it could be minutes, it could be hours, or a whole day. Slowly, with trembling hands, she reached up to her face, trying to remove the largest shards by touch alone. Her fingers met with dried, sticky blood on her cheek and temple, and then fresh blood rushed down her face as she removed some pieces of glass. There was more in her hair and clothes, but she would need light to pick them out safely.

Tauriel took a shuddering breath. Everything was pitch black and completely silent. Tentatively, she felt her way along the floor as it sloped slightly upwards towards the entrance.

It was blocked by a large, smooth expanse of stone, probably a fallen column. It explained why Tauriel hadn’t been buried under rubble, although being trapped in a small room behind a massive cave-in was probably just as hopeless.

With a whimper, Tauriel slumped against the broken doorframe. At least there was no glass on the floor there.

Nobody knew where she was. Even if they figured out she was trapped here, could they do anything? She remembered how far the corridor had stretched behind and before her – if all of it had collapsed, then it might take weeks for the dwarves to get to her. That is, if they even cared to try in the first place. If she was worth the risk and effort for them. And if it was even possible.

Despondent and hurting, Tauriel leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

She could only wait – for death or for rescue, she wasn’t sure.

 

***

As his companions gathered around Dain to discuss the best way to reach Tauriel, Fili walked up to the cave-in, took a deep breath and stood up straighter. Let them think him crazy, let them think him unstable. Perhaps, he was. The fact of the matter was that the only way to get their elf back was to own those voices in his head.

He sighed as he gave up any pretence at rationality, let go of all the stories about what stone sense was or  wasn’t. He closed his eyes and let his senses embed him in the Stone.

It’s alright, he told the anxious Mountain. We’ll get her out. I’m here. I’m with you.

Tell me, my prince, the Mountain sighed in relief. Tell me what you need of me.

Just hold up the remaining structure, Erebor.

You will try to go through the rubble here?

Fili paused, his thoughts turning sluggish and ancient.

Is there a better way? he asked.

The Mountain gave him a tremulous smile.

Please do not fear me, she said. I learned my lesson, I will be gentle. I will be patient. Now _see_ , child of Durin!

His thoughts ground down to a halt.

When Fili opened his eyes, he saw felt sensed knew every crack in the stone around him, every lode of gold and silver, every geode of precious stones and every underground pond and stream.

He was grey and black basalt. He was all the colours of gems. He was the reflected green light falling over broken tiles and mirrors. He was the darkness in the depths of the mountain, and the flickering light of a torch, the silvery splendour of mithril, and the glorious wealth of gold.

For a short, infinite moment, Fili, son of Dis, was the Mountain.

And there was, indeed, a better way.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this Fili is neurodivergent by fantasy standards. It's kinda genetical, I mean, the Stone speaks louder to those of the line of Durin, hence the voice turning up after the Battle. Although other dwarves can have unusually acute stone sense too, like Nori.  
> Hope that explains the voices. Stone sense is a headcanon that I loooove :D


	10. Roots in Stone II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaa, now all chapters have titles! Have fun :)  
> I also hope my structural/spatial descriptions make sense, but just to clarify, the levels go from bottom to top like this: blacksmiths > tailors (where Fili and Dwalin investigated previously) > glassblowers (where Tauriel is trapped) > carpenters (unstable).

The darkness felt almost alive, an entity in its own right. Tauriel wondered if she could touch it if she mustered the strength to reach out her arm. Probably not. Must be her tired mind playing tricks on her.

She sighed as she leaned her head against the stone wall. She had no idea how long she had been there. The only sign of time passing at all was that the cuts on her face and hands had stopped bleeding. When she closed her eyes, she thought of home.

> _The exhilarating rush of movement as she and Legolas flew with her fellow scouts through the branches of ancient, gloomy oaks. She knew those trees like the back of her hand, the whole forest almost an extension of her own body. They heard the scraping of giant spiders as they left poisonous claw marks on tree bark, and like quiet shadows the elves followed their prince into the fray._

Tauriel idly wondered if they had found a new captain of the guard yet. She could offer suggestions, of course, but somehow she doubted anyone would listen to her. Even if she ever got out in the first place.

Did Legolas miss her? He was a prickly Sindar, and he was her prince, but lately he’d been treating her… as a friend? Tauriel let out a long sigh as she recalled the Elvenking’s warning that had confused her so at the time. Then she’d been exiled, and then Legolas had decided to side with her… Unwelcome as his apparently growing, misguided feelings for her were, it had probably started even earlier, when they’d brought in the dwarves.

> _“Why does the dwarf stare at you, Tauriel?” the prince demanded, a strange petulant note in his voice. Tauriel paused in surprise. The dwarf had been staring?_
> 
> _“Who can say?” she offered neutrally and then a rare spark of mischief pulled her lips in a pretend dreamy smile. “He’s quite tall for a dwarf, don’t you think?”_
> 
> _Even if Legolas had never made her think he saw her as anything but a friend, she found it hard to school her features and suppress a chuckle as she left the dungeons._

The dungeons. Even from there she had been able to see some daylight filtering down from the clearing above. She recalled the gentle notes from the Feast of Starlight reaching her that night she’d been guarding the cells. The night she had whiled away talking with a reckless dwarf about starlight and promises, and a fire moon rising above the hills.

Tauriel shifted as she remembered the runestone. For weeks she had been carrying it around in her sash, its smooth surface with the unreadable, secret runes as comforting as it was frustrating. But it wasn’t there now. She patted down her dress, but neither could she find it in her pouch or bosom, or in the shafts of her boots. Her breath hitched as she realized she had probably lost it during the cave-in. Distraught, her hands sought for purchase, and she wrapped them around her knees as she pulled them to her chest. It was not enough. Her hands needed… needed…

> _Scrawny for his kind, and still stronger than her, with heavy muscles and broad shoulders, and warm, calloused hands. With a stubborn will to live and a mortal poison coursing through his veins._
> 
> _Hands pressed down on his wound, she chanted, praying to the Valar and begging for their mercy, begging that the archer be spared. Her hands had been spilling orc blood for centuries. She was a killer, not a healer, she was the Elvenking’s sharpest blade and his most trusted guard. But Kili saw her as something more, and so she chanted, appealing to the Valar and praying for their mercy, praying that her archer be spared._

Tauriel stared unseeing into the darkness. Somewhere beyond time and space, she will have the opportunity to finish that discussion he started on the lakeshore. But right now… Right now she simply wanted her flute and Bombur’s soft bread. She wanted another crispy winter morning on the ledge ducking Dwalin’s axes, wanted Fili’s quiet, still presence. She wanted to know they were all going to be fine, and that she could be there to witness it.

The darkness seemed to be staring back at her, but somehow Tauriel couldn’t find it in her to be afraid anymore.

 

***

They were looking at him with varying degrees of incredulity.

Dwalin was stroking his beard as he leaned against a wall, the usual tell that he was deep in thought. Nori sat quietly on the floor, a look of unmitigated awe trained on Fili before Ori and Dori joined him for a hushed, strained discussion. Bofur frowned, hands clasped behind his head as he glanced up at the gaping hole in the ceiling and the walls of the carpenters’ quarter above it. The others didn’t appear to have much to contribute one way or the other, with either their stone sense too dull, or their knowledge of forces and structures plainly insufficient.

“This is madness,” Dain was the first to voice the overall opinion. “You have guts, lad, I’ll give you that, but what you suggest is complete madness. It’s impossible.”

Fili crossed his arms and stared back at him. “It’s not,” he said simply.

“Fili, are you sure about this? Are you completely, absolutely sure?” Balin’s eyes begged him to reconsider. Then again, he must have known Fili had his own brand of recklessness.

“Bofur?” Fili turned to the miner. “What say you?”

The dwarf sighed, shaking his head as if trying to talk himself out of it. “It… could work,” he admitted. “It’s crazy, but… I mean, if you’re sure about the dimensions and weights… And are you _totally_ sure it’s all basalt?”

Fili nodded. “All basalt.”

“Right… Right.” Bofur nodded to himself before taking a deep breath. “I’ll need you to draw me the cross sections of all three levels: this one, the one above and the one below. With all the cracks that are already there. From structural to mere fissures. Is that… can you do that — can you sense them?”

“Unbelievable,” Dain groaned as Fili nodded again.

“Alright, everyone,” Dwalin growled, practical as usual. “Get a grip and let’s get going. We have a couple levels with inventoried goods to evacuate.”

Fili let himself breathe in relief before getting Ori and rushing off to the archives.

 

***

She had tried to sing despite her parched throat when she realized that the feeling of being watched had, at some point, morphed into something warm and soft, the darkness a comforting blanket around her shoulders.

Tauriel wondered how that had happened. She had always detested darkness.

Her people told stories about the hunter in the dark. It had been Morgoth’s work, designed to inspire fear and mistrust for the Valar who would come to bring the elves west. And he had succeeded, in part. Darkness had surrounded their starlit clearings on the silver shores of Cuiviénen back when there had been no sun and no moon. Darkness had marked the edge of their world, home to demons and monstrous beasts. It was where giant spiders and wargs came from, where sickness and evil thrived even now.

But inside the mountain, it suddenly felt finite and concrete to Tauriel. It hid an orderly structure, angular strong lines of columns and stairs, carved pilasters and elaborate architraves. In Erebor, the darkness meant just halls and rooms that were not in use. There were no monsters there.

Chuckling tiredly at the poetic, absurd turn her thoughts had taken, Tauriel turned and patted the wall.

Calm. Strong. Eternal. The darkness pulsed around her with benevolent intelligence, and Tauriel leaned in closer, pressing her forehead to the stone.

It felt like consolation. It felt like acceptance.

 

***

It was night by the time everything was ready, the preparations carried out to Balin’s and Dain’s exacting demands. Everything of value had been removed from the tailors’ quarter below and the carpenter’s quarter above the level of the cave-in, or whatever could be accessed around the hole in the floor anyway. Fili’s cross sections had been accurately aligned with Ori’s floor plans, and Bofur, with the input from Oin and some engineers from among Dain’s people, had checked the calculations thrice.

Are you sure, the mountain wondered, but Fili found no judgement in her voice.

Am I sure I want to bring down two more levels to get to my elf? Fili let out a nervous chuckle. Yes, if the alternative is to pick through the rubble for a week.

Stone can be rebuilt, my prince. Lives that have been lost cannot be regained.

I know. I know, Erebor. We’ll be careful.

Slowly Fili made his way up to the carpenters’ quarter, the remaining dwarves of Thorin’s Company and a team from the Iron Hills trailing behind him, pickaxes and explosives ready in their hands. The Mountain was tense, and Fili edged along the walls slowly, remembering Nori’s warning about the possibility of another collapse, and also seeing it, feeling the weaknesses in the structure around the caved in floor where a column had fallen down or a whole section of a wall had crumbled.

He pointed out where to place the explosives, and they checked everything against Bofur’s calculations too. Fili leaned against a wall, eyes half-closed as he tried to take in everything around him, to feel the stone as an extension of his own mind again. The Mountain reached for him, trembling slightly as she tried to hold the level stable despite the dwarves cutting sockets into the already compromised columns for placing the explosives.

You don’t have much time, she warned. Something has to break.

Fili called out to Bofur to adjust the placement of one batch of explosives.

“Like this?” the miner asked. He swiped nervous sweat from his forehead.

“It’s fine now, yes. Let’s get out now.”

They retreated, leaving a length of burning rope behind them as Fili rushed everyone up the staircase, and then into another hallway branching off in the opposite direction from the carpenters’ quarter.

My prince!

Hold on.

My prince, something has to give!

Just a moment… Fili was panting as he ran into the hall, Dwalin right on his heels.

“Don’t you dare die and make me face your mother alone,” he swore before crashing Fili into the wall by the entrance, shielding him with his body.

The explosions sent a tremor through the ancient stone, and Fili felt it in his bones as the columns collapsed, bringing down the remaining floor and the already damaged walls. The floor of the glassblowers’ quarter had not been designed to hold the weight of two levels worth of stone, and the Mountain trembled, the Mountain tensed as a bowstring, and then the Mountain _breathed_ , letting the whole mass of rubble crash down another level, the top of the pile now forming an uneven access to rooms branching off the central hallway of the glassblowers' quarter.

It took Fili a moment to get his bearings after the distant rumbling stopped, and the massive wave of the Mountain’s relief almost knocked him off his feet.

It is done, she sighed. The path to the room adjoining the glassware storage is free. What stone remains, is stable. But you must hurry, my child...

Thank you, Fili breathed. Thank you, Erebor.

They waited for a few moments to let the dust settle, and then they were all running down the stair again.

 

***

Tauriel was shaken from her slumber as a deep tremor ran through the stone wall she was sitting against. The darkness around her was tense, and it somehow felt deeper, denser. It felt more _sentient_ , like it was trying to tell her something.

Unnerved, Tauriel scooted further away from the wall, gasping as she realized that the previous cave-in had probably upset some balance in the surrounding structure. Muffled blasts reached her from somewhere above, and then something groaned, falling with a massive, booming sound that had Tauriel cowering on the floor, before a whole avalanche of stone shook the dark storage room, tearing a panicked scream from the elf.

She raised her arms uselessly above her head as she felt tears running down her face again.

“Not the ceiling, please not the ceiling,” she whispered, her voice lost amid the rumbling, cracking, booming chaos on the other side of the wall.

She yelped as the wall facing the hall shifted, and then the floor sunk, the side by the door dipping lower even as the collapse in the hall seemed to have stopped.

Tauriel sat frozen as she heard the soft chinking and clinking of the broken glass sliding and rolling towards her side of the room. She frantically tried to remember if that glassware shelf was right in front of the door where she was sitting now, or somewhere to the side. She hoped it wasn't going to fall over. She also hoped that the new silence was a good thing, but damn it, she’d had enough! She wanted to get out, she wanted this whole thing to be _over_ , she wanted sun and starlight, and… and…

She found herself crouching by a side wall, palms pressed to the stone and tears streaming down her face. She was so _done_ with all this imminent death and being miserable and thirsty and alone. She wanted _out_ , she wanted her _dwarves_! _A Elberet_ , was that so impossible to ask for? Aule? Could the _Smith of the Valar_ get her out, _please_?!

She almost missed the first ring of metal against stone that ran through the wall she was pressed to. Then there was another, and another. Tauriel turned her head in surprise, trying to make out the source of the sound and then gasped as she realized it must be dwarven pickaxes chipping at the wall from the other side.

She laughed to herself, new tears of relief gathering in her eyes. Good thing she'd spent days sharpening the tools! She wiped her cheeks and wanted to shout with joy, to do something, anything to break  down the wall quicker. It was a miracle. By the Valar, it was a miracle!

The torchlight penetrating through the first crack almost blinded her, but then there were voices, her Fili, and Dwalin, and Nori… The wall crumbled beneath the strong arms of the dwarves, and then she was free, crawling out on her knees and being pulled into a strong embrace, her face pressed into soft hair the colour of birch leaves in autumn, Dwalin’s heavy, tattooed hands patting her back, Dain’s ridiculously loud voice booming above their heads as he laughed.

They were all there, gathered around her and Fili as they sat in a messy tangle on the floor, everyone talking and chuckling, eyes sparkling with warmth and happiness, and Tauriel fell apart, wracked with sobs of relief, and light, and touch, and the sheer absence of looming death.

“Shhh, we’ve got you,” Fili murmured as he rocked her and stroked her hair. “You're safe, I’ve got you. You’re safe. Everything’s going to be alright now...”

Tauriel tightened her arms around Fili, so calm and rock-solid and real. Somehow he hadn’t been so before. She held onto him until the worst of her crying had passed and then remembered she was sobbing into the shirt of the prince and future king of Erebor. 

Embarrassed, she pulled back and tried to wipe her eyes, but Fili caught her hands in his, rough thumbs running tenderly over her bloodied knuckles.

“You’re injured, lass.” Dwalin was crouching at her side. He reached up and gently cupped her chin, turning her face towards him. “Cut your pretty tree-princess face too, didn’t you?”

Tauriel blushed as she caught the amused spark in Fili’s eyes, and despite everything felt her lips tugging upwards. She chuckled as she turned towards Dwalin and hugged him too. He pulled her up, letting Balin offer his long-winded apologies about her unfortunate experience, and Ori telling her how happy he was she was alright, and Bombur trying to pull her to the kitchen right away. Tauriel grinned as she tried to take it all in, and then somebody slapped her behind — she suspected Nori — and she dissolved into laughter.

She laughed so hard she had to lean on Dwalin, and then Fili yelled at everyone to leave her alone for a bit, and finally they somehow ended up in her room.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, she wanted nothing more than to curl up on her bed now, but Dwalin tossed her a clean shirt he’d pulled unceremoniously from her wardrobe and coaxed her to change, while Fili went to get her some fresh water. Oin cleaned her wounds, dabbing some ointment on her face and bandaging her hands. He tried to ask her about any other injuries or whether she felt any dizziness, but Tauriel’s eyes were slipping closed already as Dwalin’s sure comb strokes brushed the glass from her hair.

Gentle hands prodded her to get up from the chair and walk over to the bed, where a clay cup with cool water was pressed to her lips, soothing words washing over her as someone supported the back of her head while she drank.

The familiar dusty smell of her patchwork quilt ensconced her, and Tauriel drifted to sleep, realizing, with some surprise, just how loved and accepted a woodland elf could feel among dwarves.

 

***

Kili’s runestone lay quietly on the drawer chest where Tauriel had accidentally left it days previously.

 

 


	11. The Raven Crown, Accepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili is wrapping things up. Tauriel is drunk on life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some music in the hyperlinks, if you care for such sort of thing (select the option to open in a new tab)

 

“This is getting us nowhere,” Dain fumed as soon as the next morning, as Dwalin had yet again objected to some clause in the contract with Dale. “You have to sign the contract, it’s almost Mid-winter, and I can’t keep my people here indefinitely!”

“You’d abandon us to the mercy of the Elvenking and the Lakemen?” Dwalin growled.

Balin glared at his brother, hands balled in fists on top of the eleventh version of the draft he’d just proposed. Fili knew it was pointless to try and calm them down. Despite their unity while rescuing Tauriel, everyone’s patience was at an end after weeks and weeks of little squabbles and accidental shows of disrespect, of misunderstood initiatives borne of unclear chain of command. Dain wanted to go home. Dwalin wanted security, order and clarity. Both were stubborn and proud.

Fili rubbed his hands over his face, a wave of frustration that was not his own washing over him. The Mountain wanted a solution. She wanted to move forward, not have them argue over formalities. Speaking of which…

“Balin, have you worked out something about those signatory rights?” he asked.

“I have looked, Fili.” Annoyed, the counsellor tapped the sheaf of parchment lying to his side. “Nothing. Even the Royal Council has no such rights. Only the King can sign contracts and agreements on behalf of the Kingdom.”

“Then why are we even talking about this bloody contract?” Dain erupted. “The exact wording of the termination clause is the least of your problems, if there’s nobody to sign!”

Fili growled as he leaned back in his chair. “Fine! I’ll sign it.”

The three turned to him in surprise.

“You’d...”

“Fili...”

“What? Let’s do it. I’ll try not to trip this time,” Fili snapped. He may never feel fully ready, but he wasn’t going to let another house take the throne if that was the alternative. Thorin and Kili had given their _lives_ to win back Erebor.

Dwalin, practical as usual, was the first to recover. “The crown still hasn’t been found.”

Fili narrowed his eyes as he considered. Gold, the enamel and gold crown… The Mountain showed it to him, and Fili had to suppress a smirk as he got the impression that Erebor was biting her lip in sudden, poorly contained excitement. But he was stronger now, planted more firmly in the here and now, and she was trying damn hard to be less intense, so he could take a bit of primordial enthusiasm. Fili grinned. Perhaps he should still be considered a tad crazy, but an off-the-scale stone sense did have its advantages.

“It fell into a crack _above_ the tunnel your people have been trying to clear,” he told Dain. “I can show you where. And it should be possible to fish it out with some kind of a hook from above. I think, for the moment, we’ve done enough breaking through walls.”

A wide, relieved grin split across Dain’s face. “ _Finally_ we’re talking, lad!”

“I can still scarcely believe it,” Balin admitted as he shook his head in wonder. “Your Uncle Thorin knew the Mountain perfectly, and King Thror, I suspect he felt it a bit _too_ well, at least its gold and precious stones. But the way you hear and talk to it...”

“Her. Not it.” Fili raised a cocky eyebrow at the counsellor. Dwalin huffed.

“Frerin had pretty good stone sense too,” he murmured. “First he heard the Stone was during the Battle of Azanulbizar though. Didn’t end well for him, thinking he’s gone mad in the middle of a fight.”

That turned the mood down for a bit, but then Balin straightened up and collected his papers, ready to take off and start planning the coronation ceremony. Dain got up too, relieved to start planning his return to the Iron Hills.

“I’m not sure if we should check the portents though,” Balin mentioned as he turned around at the door. “It’s a tradition and it would seem wise, but the last time didn’t go that well. And Oin _had_ recommended that day.”

Dain laughed, clapping Balin on the shoulder. “I don’t believe in portents. What was it cousin Thorin used to say?”

Dwalin glanced over at Fili and smirked.

“We make our own luck,” Fili said with a smile.

 

***

Songs should be sung about Bombur’s bread. Legends should be told about it. The fresh, fluffy bread was worth dying… was certainly worth _living_ for.

Tauriel ate almost a whole loaf before the cook tore it from her protesting hands and placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of her. Fish stew with vegetables! By the stars! Tauriel gulped it down with rapture, chuckling at Bombur’s amazed and proud look. She couldn’t blame him. She hadn’t been eating properly for weeks, either skipping meals or fishing out all the fatty parts she didn’t like, which was a lot, and not always possible. But this, this was _good_ , and she made damn sure Bombur knew just _how_ perfect and fragrant and mouth-watering that fish stew was.

She had slept until noon, stretching luxuriously upon waking, taking stock of herself, on _her_ bed, in _her_ room, revelling in the knowledge that she was no longer trapped in stone, that she was alive and free. The cuts on her face and hands would heal in a few days. The bruises on her ribs and back would fade even sooner. A larger bruise on her right thigh might remain painful for a while, but overall, she had been incredibly lucky.

As she wolfed down the last of her stew, Oin and Dori came by the kitchen, informing her that Fili and Dwalin were at a Council meeting. She was not expected to attend, and everyone was telling her to take it easy, so Tauriel obliged and happily limped off to the archives.

She knew what was going to happen, sooner rather than later, because how could it not, in a world so wonderfully aligned, and so she asked Ori for a translation he had done almost two months ago. She was given it without a question, only a proud, frustrated stream of comments on the translation process and semantic nuances, and the non-translatable nature of some of the morphological elements of a synthetic, fusional language. Tauriel, with her knowledge of Sindarin, Westron, and whatever was left of Nandorin, nodded sagely until Ori left her to her own devices.

Sitting down at the massive round table she’d been doing inventory lists at, Tauriel clutched her bandaged hands around the parchment and started learning the Oath of Durin.

 

***

Of course, in a roundabout way, perhaps it _had_ been a good day for the ceremony, Fili thought that night as he knelt by the grate in his quarters, piling up the logs he had brought in earlier.

He had needed time to come to terms with all that had happened, and having all the major decision-making responsibilities thrust on his shoulders would have probably ended in a disaster. Especially, if he’d continued thinking he was losing his mind. Memories of the battle, and memories of his loved ones still hurt, but the instances of him losing all sense and track of time had grown rarer and longer in between. The one before the cave-in had been the last one so far, and that had been after visiting the Gallery of the Dead for the first time since the burial.

He had failed to protect his uncle and brother — and he felt is as a large failure on his part, make no mistake — but the Mountain was right. Lives lost could not be regained. All he could do was strive to do better in the future. And a small voice at the back of his head, one that sounded almost like Kili, was saying that he was not doing half bad, really, and that maybe, _maybe_ Fili could and should cut himself some slack.

All in all, Fili thought he could give that coronation business another try. The dwarves needed that agreement, Bard’s people needed that agreement, and the Mountain needed a King. Fili snorted as he got up and brushed the wood dust from his pants. The first thing he’d have Balin do after that contract was out of the way, would be to work out a legal backup ensuring the Royal Council had signatory rights in the absence of a King.

Content with the sizeable pile of logs that would last him through four or five nights, Fili fetched a torch from a wall sconce in his library and set out to see how Tauriel was doing.

 

***

The elf was not inside, but the Mountain wasn’t worried.

She still loves the stars, Erebor said with a smile.

Fili’s feet carried him to the rocky slopes outside, the Mountain’s voice growing quiet as an open sky with the first evening stars replaced the massive weight of the mountain above his head. He could hear a flute now, the sound carrying crystal clear in the cool winter air.

The elf sat cross-legged on a large boulder, an old dwarven cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She played a [simple melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gbWL7MJ_kI), haunting in its almost-familiarity. Fili sat on the ground at the base of the rock and let his thoughts drift with the music, watching with Tauriel as more and more stars appeared in the darkening sky in the east.

“It’s a hymn often played at the Feast of Starlight,” she said when she finished. “About walking in the white light of the stars, all concerns and pain fallen away until only a clear memory remains.”

“It’s beautiful,” Fili said. “Feels as if I’ve heard it before.”

“The Elvenking’s dungeons, perhaps. It was the night of the Feast before you escaped.”

Fili smiled as he leaned his head against the boulder, his eyes drifting closed.

“Seems so long ago...”

“Not more than two moons, Fili.”

“Still.”

They sat for a while in companionable silence, before Fili gathered his thoughts once more.

“Why east?” he wondered. “Aren’t you elves all about the west?”

Tauriel chuckled quietly.

“The Eldar maybe. Woodland elves, not so much. We’re the wild ones, the stubborn ones,” she said, scrunching her nose in humorous contempt. “We love this land more than we love the thought of a safe and ideal future in Valinor. Our Sindar lords brought us their knowledge, their culture and their metalworking skills, but we were born here, we are rooted in this land, and you can’t take it out of our blood, no matter how beautiful the West may be.”

Fili had turned around, watching her speak as she sat comfortably on top of the boulder. Her slender silhouette barely visible against the dark slope of the mountain, her back ramrod straight and a silver flute gleaming in her bandaged hand, she looked strangely appropriate. She looked like she belonged on this mountain.

She’s strong, whispered Erebor, and Fili had to agree.

She’s good and courageous, my new child. Loyal.

Fili’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Your child? She’s a woodland elf, he said.

She’s my child now, the Mountain announced smugly.

Fili laughed, and Tauriel leaned forward to swat him on the head with the flute.

“What did I say that’s so amusing?” she demanded, a smile audible in her voice.

The dwarf bit his tongue. So the Mountain had adopted her? So she was Tauriel of Durin’s Folk now, without having to recite any stupid old oaths? Oh, nobody was going to believe him, not even Nori. The Mountain was never going to stop surprising him, was she?

“Nothing,” he chuckled. “Please tell me more. The Eldar? I kind of thought you elves are all the same, more or less. No offence, but dwarves don’t usually make any distinctions for your lot. And what about that thing about metalworking? Did you fight spiders with wooden sticks before… before when?”

Tauriel cast him a long-suffering look, then took a deep breath and started enlightening him on the history of elves in Middle-earth.

 

***

[Finally the day came](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyzGRbbha3E) a week or so later when, once more, the dwarves filed into the vast throne hall, the ancient figures of their forebears looking down on them in anticipation of the glorious rebirth of their kingdom. Once more, Tauriel found herself at Dwalin’s side, listening to his translation of the ceremonious phrases exchanged by Balin and Dain Ironfoot. But this time she had her own, appropriate and well-fitting clothes to wear, and this time she didn’t fidget with her bracers. This time, Fili stood unwavering in full platemail, with a dagger and a sword strapped to his side, his spine straight and his gaze present.

Tauriel watched the carved ribs of the cavernous ceiling, her eyes following the angular, parallel lines decorating the columns and the arches of the narrow bridges. Same as before, the sharp angles and facets mirrored each other without a fault, but it felt less constraining somehow. It was a solid structure, orderly and restrained, but with lots of free space, lots of promising potential lying dormant between the walls, between the floor and the ceiling, between the flickering flames in cast-iron braziers and the darkness lurking in the corners.

"Since the days of Durin the Deathless, mountains and stone have been the realm of the dwarves," recited Balin. "They have been ours to shape and take shelter in, ours to mine and inhabit." 

"Since the days of Durin the Deathless, there has been but one King of Rhovanion's Stone," Dain continued.

The elves set themselves _into_ the surrounding environment, Tauriel thought suddenly. They made their homes part of the forest, with lofty tree trunks serving as columns, tangled roots forming bridges and floors, dense canopies the roof above their heads. And somehow, you could get trapped in that structure. Find yourself so deeply integrated in it that you weren’t sure where the structure ended and you started.

But dwarves blasted and dug their way through the stone as they pleased. They made their environment, they shaped it. And there was always the sharp juxtaposition of ancient, unmoving stone, and living, breathing, stubborn dwarves walking on it. The stone was but a trusty backdrop, an unobtrusive frame to their lives. Tauriel smiled at the thought. She, too, was free now, to carve a new life for herself.

"Under mountain, under stone," boomed Dain's powerful voice on the other side of the hall.

"Throughout the lands let it be known," called Balin, "a King under the Mountain shall be crowned once more!"

Tauriel watched with trepidation as, once more, one of Dain’s generals brought the reclaimed raven crown across the narrow pathway, bowing low as he handed it over to Balin. She held her breath as Fili dropped on one knee, and the counsellor stepped forward, pausing for a split moment and then placing the crown on his head.

When he got up, a collective sigh of relief washed through the throne hall before the low horns in the galleries sounded once more, a jubilant tremor passing seemingly through the stone itself. Dwalin chuckled in relief at her side, and Tauriel found herself grinning as Nori and Bofur clapped each other on the shoulders, Ori patiently repeated the last bits into Oin’s hearing horn, and everyone else standing at the end of the bridge shuffled in giddy anticipation.

 

Fili felt the stone relax under his feet as he got up, the crown heavy but surprisingly well-balanced on his head. The sense of the Mountain ensconced him like a blanket, her relief and happiness, and her gold and basalt, and veins of gold, gems, geodes, caverns, shafts, precious stones and more gold. The feeling was heavy, slow like molasses, but warm, comforting. Fili mentally shook himself out of it as he raised his head, catching Tauriel’s eye at the end of the hall.

“Do you swear to serve the Kingdom under the Mountain without reserve, to put her interests and those of your people before those of your own, to rule with justice and wisdom?” Balin asked him solemnly, and Fili nodded.

“By Mahal’s hammer, I swear.”

“Do you swear to preserve and uphold the Law of Durin, the traditions and honour of your people?”

“By Mahal’s hammer, I swear.”

“Do you swear to do your utmost to promote the prosperity and to protect the freedom and safety of your kingdom, to defend it from enemies both within and without?”

“By Mahal’s hammer, I swear.”

“Then so shall it be,” declared Dain, a wide grin splitting his face as he rose his arms in the air.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!” he bellowed.

The hall erupted in an answering cheer.

“Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!”

Fili found himself grinning too.

 

The dwarves of Thorin’s old company, the ones born in the Blue Mountains or on the long road through Dunland, or Moria, or elsewhere, were all motioned to walk forward, crossing over the dark chasm. Stopping before the steps on which Fili stood, they lowered themselves on one knee, right hands drawn in fists pressed to their left shoulders.

“Do you swear to obey your new King, to preserve and uphold the laws of this kingdom, to defend it from enemies both within and without?” Fili recited the simple oath required of Durin’s Folk as they came of age or moved into the Kingdom under the Mountain.

A chorus of “We do” answered him, and thus Fili gained his first nine subjects in addition to Balin, who had sworn this same oath to Fili’s great-grandfather.

“It is my honour to welcome you,” Fili replied, his clear voice carrying across the hall.

Dain’s people cheered, and when the grinning new subjects of Erebor cleared the path for her, it was Tauriel’s turn to step on the bridge.

Heart stuttering in her chest, she lowered herself on both knees as instructed, aware of the warm presence of her friends lining both sides of the bridge at her back. She pressed her fist to her shoulder and glanced up at Fili, momentarily speechless at the gravity of the moment.

Her golden-haired prince was a king now.

Six hundred years of service to another king was not a simple thing to put behind her, and yet, here she was, choosing to trust in the good will and judgment of a young dwarf with a soothing, calm presence, with the Mountain pulsing in his veins. Tauriel cleared her throat.

“I am Tauriel of Mirkwood, daughter of Denwech,” she started. “I would pledge my axe and my shield, my voice and my counsel to the King under the Mountain.

“I swear to preserve and uphold the Law of Durin, the traditions and honour of Durin’s Folk.

“I swear to do my utmost to promote the prosperity and to protect the freedom and safety of this realm, to defend it from enemies both within and without.

“My King, I offer you my loyalty, my honour, my willing heart.”

Fili stepped forward, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“I accept your pledge and your offer. In return, I promise you the protection of these halls and a place by my table, always. Now rise, Tauriel of the Lonely Mountain.”

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Tauriel stood up and nodded, then turned around and walked back across the bridge, fighting the tears that threatened to blind her as the other dwarves fell in step behind her. She was elated. She was overwhelmed. She was at the beginning of a new path.

The old questions and what-ifs settled down in her mind, content to be left unanswered. The few unfinished drafts of a letter she had started to write, trying to find some closure with the Elvenking, didn’t feel that important anymore. She had a celebration to attend, and Dwalin had just a few days previously started teaching her how to not fall off one of those mountain rams dwarves used for riding. Balin expected her to come to the archives the next day, intent on starting on her Khuzdul and the main philosophical principles that made up the Law of Durin. And as soon as the agreement with Dale was signed, she would start her new duties as the Chief of Scouts, training the new Lakemen recruits on horseback and organizing the scouting and outer border control.

Absurd as it might be, she was Tauriel of Durin’s Folk now.

 

***

Having returned to his quarters to take off the ceremonial armour before rejoining the celebration, Fili paused as his gaze stopped on the neck of some instrument showing over the edge of the top shelf in his library room.

Curious, he pushed a chair to the shelf and climbed up, only to find a dust-covered fiddle and bow. He stared at it for a moment in uncertainty. His hands seemed to move of their own volition though, remembering loving motions set deep in his bones, pressing it between his shoulder and chin, the bow raised in his hand, the fingers of the other reaching for the strings, testing their tune. 

Fili grimaced at the first sounds it produced, but it could be remedied quickly.

He climbed down from the chair and stared at the instrument for a while longer.

Absurd as it might be, he was curious about how it may sound on a starlit evening, together with a flute.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fic has been brought to you by ungodly amounts of [Paleowolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JO74cGoN_To) and [Wardruna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyP6qkbzH9c) :)  
> Now all that's left is a short epilogue but aaaaa this is gonna be the longest fic I'll have actually finished in, like, forever.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracing lines on skin.  
> Takes place a few months after Fili's coronation.

 

A bright fire crackled in the grate, illuminating the small, cozy space freed between it and the two old armchairs in the new king’s bed chamber. Fili, shirtless, lounged on his stomach on some shaggy, moth-eaten wolf pelt by the fire, arms folded under his chin. Tauriel sat cross-legged on the floor between Dwalin and various sachets and dried herbs scattered on her other side, a stone mortar and pestle forgotten in her lap.

“How can you lie so still? Doesn’t it hurt?” She frowned, watching as Dwalin worked ink into Fili’s skin, renewing the straight, regular lines and patterns on his shoulders over the healed scar tissue.

Fili shrugged, earning a slap on his ribs from Dwalin.

“You could say I’ve gained some perspective,” the young king said, blue eyes sparkling with quiet mirth.

“Perspective...” Dwalin growled, leaning low over Fili’s shoulders, his bent knee brushing against Tauriel’s. “I’ll give you some perspective on this if you don’t lie still.”

Tauriel chuckled, picking up her mortar and pestle again. Some of the ingredients Oin had given here were downright confusing. For example, powdered agate, of all things, was supposed to help bring down swelling. Tauriel would have used _athelas_ , but Dwalin said it might cause expulsion of the pigment, and then all this work would be for naught. So she kept to the dwarven recipe.

Fili meanwhile seemed to have given some thought to Dwalin’s threat.

“It could actually work,” he drawled. “Those used to be some architrave drawings by Uncle Frerin, you know. So there  _is_  a depth aspect to them. All we have to do is find the actual thing in Erebor, to ascertain the right dimensions, I guess. Or, I could trust Dwalin’s artistic sense.”

Tauriel smirked as she cast a look at the simple ornaments tattooed on the warrior’s hands and scalp.

“I wouldn’t trust it too much, Fili. Depth doesn’t seem to be Master Dwalin’s forte. Artistically speaking.”

“I’d watch my mouth around sharp needles and ink, you grasshopper," Dwalin muttered, deep in concentration. "Unless you want to see if you’ve developed some perspective too? It does give a sense of closure sometimes.”

Tauriel shook her head. “Thank you, but... _Galkhishmêr_? I like my skin the way it is.”

The gruff warrior chuckled. “Someone’s learning! Well, suit yourself.”

After Dwalin had finished renewing Fili’s old tattoo, he moved to sit on his hips — Fili grunted and complained about the warrior’s weight — and started working out the details of a new one. Curious, Tauriel scooted closer as Dwalin traced on Fili’s back and upper arms the outline of stylized raven feathers that seemed to grow out of the existing geometric design.

“Uncle Thorin had raven wings drawn on his back,” Fili explained. “They say there used to be a raven sitting by his cradle when he was small, the bird later following him everywhere as he grew. When Erebor fell and they all barely escaped, the raven stayed with the Mountain. Thorin missed his trusted companion.”

“You wear your memories on your skin,” Tauriel guessed.

“Some of them.” Fili glanced up at her and winked. “There is, of course, the aesthetic factor.”

Well, Tauriel would be lying if she denied the aesthetic factor of her new king’s broad, muscled shoulders and back, especially now that Fili had got up and was turning this way and that before a mirror, inspecting the traced lines. She wouldn’t say she found dwarves _attractive_ , not in the physical sense, but there certainly was a kind of sturdy harmony to their bodies.

Dwalin crouched before the grate and threw in another log for better illumination, sparks flying merrily.

Tauriel cleared her throat and focused on adding the final ingredients to the ointment.

“What about Kili?” she heard herself asking. “Will you get a drawing for him too?”

Fili hummed nonchalantly. “I want to. But I haven’t figured out what.”

Pleased with Dwalin’s design, he lay down on the pelt again, and Dwalin got back to work. Absent-mindedly, Tauriel leaned over and brushed Fili’s hair to the side, then scooped up some of the paste and gently dabbed it over the fresh lines Dwalin had already finished. 

“Something related to bow hunting perhaps?” she suggested.

“Could be. He did love forest life. Hated your giant spiders though.”

Dwalin snorted, bent down with the ink and needle over Fili’s back. “You trust her artistic sense now? How would she know what Kili was like?”

Tauriel paused. She caught Fili’s eye, sensing he was offering to derail Dwalin for her, if she wanted. Nothing had come of the young dwarf’s interest, and there was probably no need to upset Dwalin, but...

Deciding suddenly, Tauriel straightened up and pulled out the runestone from her sash. She extended it in her open palm towards Dwalin.

“Because he left me this,” she challenged. “Because he told me something on the lakeshore before leaving.”

Dwalin swallowed thickly, probably recognizing the token.

“He... left you this…? What did he tell you?”

“He called me…  _amrâlimê_?”

Fili sighed, turning his face into his arms as Dwalin froze with shock.

“You knew?” Dwalin poked him, incredulous gaze shifting to Tauriel.

“I suspected,” Fili mumbled. “He was my brother, after all.”

“What does it mean?” Tauriel finally asked.

“'My love',” Dwalin said, his voice catching. “It means 'my love'.”

Tauriel nodded to herself. She had thought so. Feared. Expected. It wasn’t a surprise by any stretch. Either way, it felt easier to breathe now that Dwalin knew about Kili too, now that she knew for certain what his words had meant. She had been right not to ask Balin during one of their lessons.

Tauriel turned the runestone in her hand.

“And this? _Innikh…_?”

Dwalin swallowed thickly, eyes resting thoughtfully on the token.

Fili groaned, finally raising his head. “All this time, and I didn’t tell you?

“It’s the old script, Tauriel. _Angerthas Moria_. You wouldn’t know it yet anyway. _Innikh dê…_  It was Kili’s promise to _amad_. It means ‘return to me’.”

Tauriel looked at him, reminded of a dreary, bleak morning under the eaves of Mirkwood, a foretelling of an empty life without a friend or home. A forecast that she and Fili had done their best to prove wrong.

“I once told you it’s your duty to return this to your mother,” she said.

Fili reached for her hand wrapped around the runestone and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles, all the while watching her with that quiet, piercing gaze of his.

“In spring, when she comes. Keep it for me until then.”

Dwalin cleared his throat as he glanced down at Fili’s bare back, a contemplative look on his face.

“Right, so something with forests or hunting. Can you draw, lass?”

Tauriel caught Fili’s eye and smiled. Tucking the runestone back in her sash, she went out to the library room for some pencils and parchment. Returned, she sat back cross-legged on the floor, with an armchair and a cushion comfortably behind her back, the orange light from the grate illuminating the dwarves and the beginnings of her sketch.

“Mind that it works with the architrave and the raven feathers,” Fili reminded her.

“Of course. Now tell me more about Kili. Tell me about your Blue Mountains. How did you two end up on this quest? What is your mother like, did she try to talk you into staying?”

Dwalin snorted at that, and soon the three of them lost the track of time again as they regaled the elf with tales of Kili’s mischief and Dis’ no nonsense attitude, of the wildlife of their native hills and of Thorin’s Halls, of dwarven songs and feasts and small adventures on the road as they travelled Eriador.

Tauriel smiled as she listened. Pity that Fili didn’t remember any fire moons, but she already had an idea that hopefully would remind him of his brother as much as a fire moon would always remind of him to her.

Fili had nodded eagerly at her sketch, and Dwalin had taken it into account as he continued working on the feathers, so when the line work for the final piece was traced on Fili’s back, it fit perfectly.

Tauriel got up with Fili as he checked the traced lines in the mirror before lying back down, ready for Dwalin’s needle to embed it permanently in his skin.

It was really late now, and she'd had enough. Yes, it was Fili’s own choice, and, yes, they both knew there were things that hurt more than an inked needle, but it was still painful and she simply didn't want to watch it anymore. Dwalin could apply the rest of the paste when he finished. Tauriel turned in the door as she was leaving for her room, something tightening strangely in her chest.

Deer antlers ruffling raven feathers. Symbolically, it was a piece of forest, for Kili, but practically it was her drawing taking shape on Fili’s skin right this moment.

They could pretend all they wanted, but they both knew it was not just about Kili anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaa! Guys, this was not the original epilogue, but I was honestly screaming when I wrote the end of this, so I hope you like it too!  
> I can't say when there is going to be a continuation though. I have some ideas, but not a real plot, so if you're curious as to will they/won't they, I suggest simply subscribing to this series :) And thank you all for reading, your comments have been wonderfully motivational!
> 
>  _Galkhishmêr_ — Thank you but no. Tauriel's baby steps in Khuzdul :)  
>  Thorin's raven tattoo is a heartily embraced headcanon from Calaverna's illustrated ficlet [here](https://calaverna.tumblr.com/post/162271821032/thorin-tattoos-1314-the-day-thorin-was-born-his).  
> See Fili's tats [here](https://mekhmarul.tumblr.com/post/174375131905/after-the-coronation-fili-updated-his-tats?is_related_post=1). I'm no artist but I just _had_ to.  
> 


End file.
